It was grotesque, outplayed at best,
a social mess, a carnal wreck.
Full of deceit, you shall complete,
that decrepit crumbling questionnaire,
that toyed with your beliefs.
My soul is covered in blisters,
and I'm singing the blues.
But it sure is comfy now I'm walking in,
the devil's shoes.
I'd dig up a swollen hatchet and then i'd bury this broken boy for you.
Inject the rest, with sanguine zest.
From waiter's guise, hurt heart so kind,
from aching chest, blue blood boils best.
My soul is covered in blisters,
and I'm singing the blues.
But it sure is comfy now I'm walking in,
the devil's shoes.
I'd dig up a swollen hatchet and then i'd bury this broken boy for you.
And then i'd bury this broken boy for you.
And then i'd bury this broken toy,
'cause i ran out of glue.
So what's this broken boy to do?
My soul is covered in blisters,
and I'm singing the blues.
But it sure is comfy now,
I'm strutting my stuff in the devil's shoes.
I'd dig up a swollen hatchet and then i'd bury this broken boy for you.