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​No Groove In Gunsights

This song is by Swingin' Utters and appears on the compilation album Hatest Grits: B-Sides and Bullshit (2008).

My bag of tricks is down to just to a bag
A home for the filthy, the filthy rich's rags
Fortitude for many, a humping hole for hags
No substitute nor substance, life on the smelter's slag
I'm the scapegrace who scissors through by busline
See no sympathy for obstacle, the stepped on and deprived
Plug my ears, cover my eyes
But my fingers leak the cries of civilian, bombardier-evil ones, either side
An idle domicile of steel, bombed to a tin
No privacy, no profit, no prophecy to win
To show what she's got inside, to show she's wearing thin
To offend fuck all, if she has fuck all to defend

No grooves in gun sights
Run through the dog bites
Jesus and Mary might

Her bag of tricks is down just to a bag
A home for the filthy, the filthy rich's rags
Fortitude for many, a humping hole for hags
No substitute nor substance, life on the smelter's slag
When baby cries she's mother's little parasite
She bites off more than she can chew to secure her appetite
Mother's got a pocket full of unheard lullabies
There is no groove in her bomb site
My friends were denied fuel by decree
Gassed up goons on the fumes, void all civility
Each shouting, "It will take a burden to break me, even on my bum knee
And if you can handle a little sting, it wouldn't hurt to believe me"
A creed, this dying breed, huddled close in the corners
The framing of the fraud, the immortal mourner
Made to shirk the shit of battle, hearts of boron
A selfish, sinking ship with life rafts for the morons

No grooves in gun sights
Bullets pierce the sunrise
Cover your son's eyes