I keep my father's gun underneath my bed.
Next to the magazines I never read.
Painted faces hover around my eyes.
Painted faces hover around like flies.
Oh, I'm going home on the back of a storm from down below.
Oh, no one will know what happened to my body, what happened to my bones.
I don't need a preacher boy. I know I'm right.
I've got the spirit now. I've got my forty-fives.
Painted faces paint their lives on me.
Painted faces. Painting endlessly.
Oh, I'm going home on the back of a storm from down below.
Oh, no one will know what happened to my body, what happened to ...