Bottoms Up, Socrates Lyrics - Pitchfork And Lost Needles - Clutch

VERSE 

They came marchin down the street in robes, 

In the spirit of Spanish Inquisition. 

Guitars and trombones, 

Mechanical monkeys make good musicians. 

Streets urchins, the smugglers and dingos, 

dead languages and living man lingos. 

Put the relics of the saint in a glass box and march him around the block. 

PRE-CHORUS 

Hangin on the words of a madman, 

Islands in the abyss, 

No use for the poet, 

when the hopeless seek no bliss. 

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VERSE 2 

Mason jars of petroleum, 

You know those kids don't play, 

And should you ever get ahold of them, 

I'll tell you exactly what they say: 

"Time we told you son about the family curse" 

And when they opened up the diary 

to gain an explanation, 

They find only terminal verse. 

PRE-CHORUS 

Hangin on the words of a madman, 

Islands in the abyss, 

No use for the poet, 

when the hopeless seek no bliss. 

Photos 

CHORUS 

X-ray visions, 

Eye in the sky, 

the naked being led by the blind 

So Bottoms up, Socrates. 

Hemloc straight up 

Goes down easy 

PRE-CHORUS 

Hangin on the words of a madman, 

Islands in the abyss, 

No use for the poet, 

when the hopeless seek no bliss. 

Altered CHORUS 

X-ray visions, 

Eye in the sky, 

the naked being led by the blind 

So Bottoms up, Socrates. 

Hemlock tastes like ripple wine 

CHORUS 

X-ray visions, 

Eye in the sky, 

the naked being led by the blind 

So Bottoms up, Socrates. 

Hemlock straight up 

Goes down easy