cheap wine and stale bread
a mighty fine feast for the dead
all broken noses and busted hands
just one more list of demands
take those goddamn hands off that goddamn gun
I told you once, I ain't nobodys son
we own these streets and we run this town
stay in line or we'll gun you down
God don't even walk these busted streets
'cause even he knows we're packing heat
after us the flood
the gutter's will fill with blood
and believe, kid, this aint a lie
mess with us and you're gonna die
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