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​100 Fathers

This song is by Cecil Otter.

Now this new jack is hiting the old room going for broke
Wrangling wild horses with my toes in the rope
Holding a smoke, I lay back and enjoy the drag
I may be broke, praise the fact that I employ the flag
Burners on freights make it hard to watch the road sometimes
Looking for a place to stay in barbershops with open signs
Soaked in wine, booze smoking wisdom
Now I'm the right mood to hold the rhythm
I hold some wholesome women
Pick up the old six string and write a song for false imprisonment
But I never shot a man and I never been to reno guess I'm better of demanding plans of ???

There's a bed under this monster
Who wears the heads of a hundred fathers
And lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offers

My rudder's locked for the evening, ship still sailing
Crushing into docks when I'm sleeping
Don't mock the meaning and I won't stop dreaming
While I'm off eating more than I can fit my mouth around
This sound has lost its leaning
Often feeding on its own young
So what's the cost of fleeing if you don't run
Now no one is as beautiful
As a rainy season making love to a funeral
For the dead-dreamers, and the slave drivers, this is cecil otter forever
Fever for the cave-lifers, and stage divers, and cage fighters

Like this oat sleeps in the acorn, that ghost sleeps in the new born
I slit the throats to keep my cave warm in hopes that it keeps my true form somber

There's a bed under this monster
Who wears the heads of a hundred fathers
And lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offers

This house is haunted
It was built over buried axes
This couch, I'm on it
Still sober barely active
Carry caskets that some are calling dead weight
They're of the falling (?) type eating dough before the bread bakes
My head aches and it pains me to medicate it
But until I learn to brave the road alone I'll stay dedicated
If my bed is made with an audience in mind
It'll most likely fight me off with the fists of time
I don't miss the finer things in life anymore
Designer rings were just knives, ready for the kill
Ready for the score, how many whore their skill
How many warm their soul with the will of an author

There's a bed under this monster
Who wears the heads of a hundred fathers
And lets the thunderkisses' waterworks night stalker walking dead with other offers

Like this oat sleeps in the acorn, that ghost sleeps in the new born
I slit the throats to keep my cave warm in hopes that it keeps my true form somber