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Thank You for Choosing the Blood Red Van

from Sorta is the Best We're Doin by Cattle Drums

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lyrics

Failure runs to me and I leap towards it without a thought and when I’m thinking I’m stalling. Begging my backbone to find an alignment crime. In my spine there’s black mold. Heaven will deny you and your fondest memories, the finer moments that teased you. The sun is up and I’m wasting no time at all taking orders from a dead man content with his train wreck to build that casket faster. I like blood, bleed blood, eat blood too much. Bleach can erase my savage attacks but it just burns these guts. It’s that time of month again where I’m sipping on babies blood and packing needy eyes with dead Polaroid captives that I pull out to keep me laughing at my stupid defective life. I must part with you. I must part with you. Yeah! I’ve got a better plan now! Renew! Renew! Remove your scalp, unhinge your skull, shovel out coal. Crash though the windshield with your sunroof head and let the clean air fill you up, it’s there to keep you alive. Now find the rest of your head, find some glue, and keep it together, secure what you’ve gained man. Quickly kill the man, the one with the death neglecting lifestyle, the one who lives for himself knowingly and carries on. I’ve got an undisclosed time to maim the murderer. I’ve got an undisclosed time to forfeit entirely. Urgency, such an important word put to shame by me. So many selfish people taking everything beautiful and turning it into something evil. Leave it to one of us, leave it to me, I’ll take the sunshine and I’ll make it bleed. I’m the best part of waking up and I’m not ashamed of spending inheritance from ancestors on filth. I sell my soul for torment everyday. Yes I reside in rendering barrels. I hope soon that I find something more sterile to sleep in. I don’t break for stop signs, no wonder I feel impounded. Me? Refuse to take the passenger seat after numerous run-ins with near death? Sounds like me. I sing a junkyard rabid cadence. I need daily morbid maintenance. I hope for the better of you and I hope for the life of me that we begin dressing for the weather and choose accordingly shoes for kicking through minefields, shoes for kicking down doors daily. Mail me to the heavens! I’m a sucker for these cycles of care, no care. Work for payoff, waste on garbage. Eat my greens then suck down black top. I pray for mercy then commit arson of a promise. Weak words burn quick but second to you.

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from Sorta is the Best We're Doin, released February 1, 2016

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Cattle Drums Oneonta, New York

three white guys and the wrong kind of indian.

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