This song is currently unrecorded.
Lyrics by: Dave Mountain
Music by: Dave Mountain, Tom Snively, Billy Sullivan
As Bob Dylan spits, "You don't know me"
You stop playing 'cause you say your hand hurts.
Inside always a public execution
Outside always indifference and confusion.
Thought you had the blue collar blues
The collar's white but the chains are pink.
Inside always flea-flicker passes,
Outside always wrap-around glasses.
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
You'd have the fame that you'll never know
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
The work is all but there's a lot that's not;
You don't have the skin for the hair ensemble.
Inside always art over commerce,
Outside always rhymes over blank verse.
Thought your doubts were kept inside
The double were broadcast all along.
Inside always fear and loathing
Outside always delusions, brown-nosing.
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
You'd have the fame that you'll never know
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
It's insanity
It's the chains you choose
It's banality
It's your faded Muse
It's morality
It's your desined choice
It's fatality
It's your only voice
(instrumental)
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
You'd have the fame that you'll never know
If the exhume you like Van Gogh
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
Then they'll put you in a better urn.
They Eat Their Young / (215) 423-7474
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