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Gameshow Host

This song is by Doomtree and appears on the album Doomtree (2008).

We're playing ghosts in the graveyard
Frozen in eight bars
Now you're hoping to make ours
Cry for you
If I were you I wouldn't hope
We're playing ghosts in the graveyard
Frozen in eight bars
Now you're hoping to make ours
Hope for you
If I were you
I wouldn't try

I splinter these wood teeth on a silver tongue
Sing hymns to sinners and sit in when the dinner's done
Dirt on the collar
Blood on the cuffs
My good foot's in a grave
The other one's a leg up
No lady o' luck
I ain't stuck in her "lap of luxury"
No fast tracks or slow ones either
Detached from suffering
The mask is under me like the past is under me
My own conscience will be the first and last thing to fuck with me
The Boy met the Man and the ways of the World
Ain't it a peach?
Nah, dig deep, it's a pearl
Sold on solitude like my soul is solid gold
We told them soldiers to hold
But never showed 'em a common goal
Don't follow robots in a suit and tie
And don't trust robots on a soapbox with a "SHOOT ME" sign
I see they drew the line
Bang bang
I walk it like Cash and all you do is divide.

So I see you've got your war paint
All suited up
Shoot 'em up
You drill it until the core breaks
Chew 'em up, use it up, then you move the rub
So leave 'em like the people in your life
The Desert Eagle is your life
Your pride drives drove you to nowhere
Now you're stuck, feathers ruffled in the cold air
Another scuffle
Bad company
Can't cut it clean so use the hollow tips
Pass the poison and swallow it with glass
Followed with a laugh for all the holograms that passed as real
Now all that solid land has got a plastic feel
So take another drag of the smoking gun and bolt
Your story's fabricated though you spoke it under oath
Gameshow host.

Medium well-rounded with a working man's halo
I served five years in the circus
And I'm about to land pay-roll
But some swear I'm hell-bound
Along with the serpent and the rainbow
But I ain't working for the devil
Or searching for no angel
I'm working all the angles in this book of human languages
I let the world I know graze the lips of that palm reader
She's calling me the crying uncle
Saying I'm so blind that I'd cuddle
With a serial time-killer who leaves her victims with a sign of struggle
I might get shuffled in to that haunted house of cards
But I'll just sit there
Playing with the queen of hearts
It's no different than being in a crowded bar
Saying "you play the wounded fish, and I'll be the shark"
Half man
Getting back to nature with an eight-track Tascam
Task at hand
I mean flask-in-hand
Leaving one set of tracks in the sand
And no tracks in my arms.

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