I'm the same kind of bad as you,
and I'm only going to the top of the hill
where the sun shines a mouth of freedom
and the cloud cover puts flowers on the flower's grave
and the rags I'm hoisting put cigars between my teeth
I grow a Wolverine
or maybe a Van Buren
but my chest concaves
and I'll take the sins of my father
if you'll take the sins of my mother
make a bone song out of this bluesy invitation,
and get me real gone.
