Sawdust in My Clothes
Chris Staples
Big black father mountain
Staring down
The city takes us in
And now that I have tasted
Her breast it's hard to leave again
This place is so full of charm
Of plastic lure
Trojan horses and phony cures
I awoke
With paint fumes in my nose
A sore spot in my neck
And sawdust in my clothes
The things that we believe
In the light of day
As thin as plywood
Like the set of a play
And we are free
Cause we don't need something to trust
After the things that we believed in
Were ground down into dust
I awoke
With paint fumes in my nose
A sore spot in my neck
And sawdust in my clothes