Oh, how my great liberal heart labors
With the piss in my rivers and gall
Before the gleaming ceremonial sabers
Who falls on them falls for us all
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
Every night I pick the locks
And the gaolers say
Some nights when I look through her window
And she seems an old lover to me
There peeling off her black nylon knee highs
And yielding her breast to the sea
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
But there's nobody home
In her telephone bones
I've kissed the green gem of the east coast
Drunk the tropical fizz of the north
Played the far flung sand castles ate at by the Indian
Froze in the broken off port
To my blue collar sprawl out the blue stony wall
Where the weather don't bother and the sea don't recall
Sometimes it's a dead man as wide as he's tall
By a blue blooded matron, and under her shawl
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
I find buttons and bones
Tiny soldiers, toy trains and murder
Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
Every night I pick the locks
And the ladies scream vain, vain, vain
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
