Pig-Doggin' from Hole by Banjo Ulysses

these days i try, not much
but i get by in my own time
but i still cant really cry
i saw his name inscribed so plain
i hid in shame
was the man i knew so lame?
forget my pride,
i'd sooner die than speak my mind
though it haunts me nine to five
thoughs days are gone my friend
its all a blur, its all pretend
just hold my hand
and brace for a hard lie

whats say we do,
all the little things we do,
got a chip on my back for you
not a thing to do

im shooting blind
take back what's mine
wont blame the sky
even if shit creek gets high (and it will)
he stashed his pain
deep south in vain
no words explain
till his death it stayed contained (now)
dont test my line
im hunting swine
and ill get mine
till the roads run red like wine
remember what he said
dont twist your neck for a new head
its not whats bled
its just whats left now get back on an ride

the hole,
as good as gold
and white as snow
and the ripples in the trees still blows
one door shuts
on another fine hole

• Ambient
• Devotional
• Experimental
• Pop
• Sound-Collage Music
• Sydney