Handmade Handgun Testo

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Testo Handmade Handgun

I am a handmade handgun,
Operated by paper crooks,
Loaded up with bullets of blank pages torn from your little black book,
You can call me all your favorites,
Oh, I love those dirty looks,
You know I'll be drunk and waiting on the steps of St. Anthony's Church,

Knuckle-blood stains the doorframe,
Frustration both ways,
You see me knock, I see you gaze through the peeker,
Watch me sneak far away,
(bump bump bump bump,) as I push my please through the shades,
I'm out of sight, for I know violence is nonsense from a dime,
I spent your mind time stop for us, (caught up,)
Cost of a heart accosted, don't blink,
Nothin's so strangled like us,
Nothin deranged like that love,
Nothin explains away the way I played like new things don't break,
Live under your ribs, a toybox, an Apple plugin,
Tuned to tune out, give out what's yours,
Like when in doubt, play the mouse in the mouth like,
Please don't let me die.

But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep,
Take a knee, spillin salt and shame up on your pretty feet,
With a head full of bourbon, I do this,
Though I love you and I think you hurt me on purpose,

I am a handmade handgun...
I thought of everything,
Even your paper ring,
The organs playin our song,
Playin our song, so sing along,

Hail to the graces
A blessing for the souls that walk about
Walk among you till this hour of death
Walk among you till this hour of death

(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen)

You come to find me, hopelessly,
Wrapped around the gun, staring at the sun,
Don't you fuckin lie to me,
G'head and try it, see, God's witness,
Pick a sense and listens, hidden,
Layin down behind a line of ivy,
He can hand you pure moments,
Or quit you from every sense you got,
Protect you with the spectacles, testicles, wallet watch,
But the devil keeps an open shop,
He pays his bills and fills his pots,
Thanks to the single sable sheep, hidden in that hollow plot,
It's a classic case of damned if you do, damned if you don't,
And I'll be damned if I end up playing Job with God's loving hand on my throat,
You could swear I traced a trail of wormwood slipping from the Empyrean,
But Providence, just a myth if I aim to let my trigger pray
But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep,
I'm a prostrate paper tiger supplicating at your pretty feet,
My mouth may run on a loaded gun and a belly full of bourbon,
I only do this cuz I love ya, I know you'd never hurt me on purpose,

I am a handmade handgun...