Ghost with a grin outside a skin house   Set in the middle of a forty acre marsh   Wrapped in moisture, growing, living things   All around the dead arms, dead arms of spring      It was my stab at faith, a losing one   Derailing any one I had   You take my hand and threw me in the   Grave, grave, grave, grave, yeah      Now hold your throat   The air's a little worse than last week   It's little bit warmer than last week   It's not like you weren't informed      You're enlightened now   It makes no difference anyway   We're all on the same list of names      Black tar running from your mouth   Engine exhaust smoking out your ears   Yellow nails and hair like   Twine, twine, twine, twine, yeah      Slow fuel on your side, sharp tip   Running water black as night   I'm not sure if you're really that informed   You're like a small bird needing to be fed      It's probably something you won't take well   Loosening every state   Trying to rearrange   The way I want to look      Take some out altogether   Move a few close together   And sing, sing a long      It's the death rattle hymn   For a place removed from inside   It's for the party of sins which always   Wins a place down below      Car balanced on an old wood chair   Barely hanging on   And I'll be there