Sick weary the card turns up once more
I’m on my knees my head is resting on the floor
May not be holy but at least I’m poor
Flesh is mortal flesh is weak
I’m 27 I feel like an antique
Wanna retire to Chesapeake
Raise trout and jimson weed
Make letter bombs and bathtub speed
Really make the fuckers pay me heed
Stay fucked up on belladonna and monk’s hood
Strike a blow or two for the common good
Nothing matters so maybe I guess I should
Maybe with the morning the mood will pass
Be satisfied with a day job and some decent grass
Can’t think right now my head’s at critical mass
Maybe if I wasn’t so weary and sick
I could choose a method and make it stick
Embarrassed by how hard I find it to pick
It’ll probably be the same anyways
Who the hell really decides things these days
We’re all blindly running this endless maze
You can read an explanation of the origin of these lyrics here
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