Bitter Thoughts

Keep your producer guessing
 When you're in the booth confessing
 And say it was mostly fiction
 If they ever come to get you
 Better bet your bottom dollar
 On the spirit, son, and father
 That I'll spit and shit and holler, yeah
 Cause I'm my mother's daughter
 Be warned, my temper burns
 Like a ginger-blow pugilist
 Unconcerned, I never learned to swing elbows
 Or use my fist
 Trying to live and let live and focus
 Invest in problem markets
 But killer's on a road trip
 His text says not with carcass
 From the backs of tent flyers in pen
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess
 When I was a little fat kid
 I'd throw fits and punch doors
 My frame is the same
 I've just thinned; I want more
 Down pinned on the floor
 Trading places with my shadow
 A pallid sallow corpse for a rising hell to swallow
 Fully unarmed or armed under the robes with a staff only
 Or unarmed fully under the robes
 Through the ribs and inner but
 But for a bulging lung of poison
 Poised to voice its cuts
 And what's worse, of course
 The sick and bile-y guts
 From the backs of tent flyers in pen
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess
 They asked him whether he was sane
 And if he'll ever kill again
 Take half a clever lawyer's brain
 To link the weapon to the man
 Bitter thoughts, liver spots
 Or bash your skull on river rocks
 Love you lots, signed mom with hearts
 OXOX on a Hallmark card
 From the backs of tent flyers in pen
 The guilt-racked liar pretends to confess