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Put the knife under the flame

You won't feel any pain

Hold this teacloth in your mouth

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Dead donkey in the snow

Down by where the ferns grow

Saw it's spirit leaving south

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We went out on the tear

And we danced the carpets bare

When I drenched the mid week doubt

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My nerves they got shot

I deserved what I got

A left hook in a bout

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I taped the microphone to the chair

And sang through the speaker

Down the cables I did shout

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There's a tape of you talking

Buried in an attic somewhere

I asked down the main street for it

No one knows a thing about it



For a poultice we'll soak some bread

Then we'll carry you to bed

With or without

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