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lyric in which violence begets kindness

Jamison Crabtree

Molotov they street until we spells f-i-r-e; this
our capacity for happy. We happy?
Yeah, we us, we gravedig. We want crunch bone to snapfire

not types tax. Each like and until
bring us close

close to they little something good.

When we speak principle, all they good fat men
tied on they bib and ate pistol for they 7th course.

Our chin messy.

When she jumped out they window I was there
holding a cheeseburger and a cherry coke.

We casts off our umbrella
in they rain. All this bird in they lake, yeah decoy. That dear
in they flashlamp, it pause too long and now, yeah.

You place they gun somewhere we forgots. Crib, maybe.
This where they list of sin hit terminal.
For you and yr, yr right:

I will never make anyone happy.