Flings Of The Waistcoat Crowd Lyrics - Robert Pollard

Great days are becoming 

A matchlight liquor establishment 

Where the factory soaks its scabs 

It hangs there like insectrocutioner 

Over the big river 

Scum of us rinsed by a hard rain 

The tar, the teeth & the gear 

Yet no trail 

All around the camp 

And that is our game 

To brag and complain 

To guess who goes next 

To tally the scars 

Learn every weakness