Charger - God Made Us In The Image Of His Ass | Текст песни

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• Charger
• God Made Us In The Image Of His Ass

Six locusts pour butter on your face
Surely you now churn with beauty
Finding the confession of chastity
More the sweet bite of a mother poisoned

She keeps waking up in the morning
I can't vomit that fact
God must have made us
In the image of his ass

With her bruised bones and scattered morals
Her gift sits uneasy on a wire tank
And an architect whispers her next role in drowning water

She keeps waking up in the morning
I can't vomit that fact
God must have made us
In the image of his ass

You slap on wooden lip skin
And dodge pins and buckles
Brushing off the clinkers
To music of leather churches

A grill over a voice in cotton
And more money than cock
Enjoyed by the mass of paper shredders
With gorps of devilish anti-light

The moon drips on you
And gives the arm a hand
Mended grains struck bleak
For wisdom groaning

Distened looks on steamed pans
A fleshy gate stalling
Viewing the close ruins and neck tax
Where you landed in a bottle

She is the mother of impulse.

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