Sycamore Smith
Bastogne
Eliza buys a thimbleEvery time she goes to townShe's mounted her collectionOn the fingers she has foundThe olive jeeps are hauling heapsOf guns & drums & gew-gawsAs I pick my teethWith a splinter from the true cross-----If yer lost then you must be convertedIf yer at peace then you must be pervertedEither way, you'll perishAnd be sent to Hell by carriage,Flayed until dementedAnd then sent away againTo haunt the cratersAnd the trenches of Bastogne-----The winter wind is whistlingAround Eliza fairThe lice have left her headTo find a warmer patch of hairThe shutters are shakingAnd the fire is dwindling--It's time we usedThose thimble stands for kindlingLetras de canciones-----Eliza's in the pantryWith her lamprey trapped in amberHer onanistic moaningHas a rather jarring timbreI'm beneath the coversIn my Sunday best attireAnd I'm sucking on aPeacemaker pacifier
From Letras Mania