St. John got gunned down with a cold ‘38
Why don't we pin him to the sky
The rarest of the specimens are neatly locked away
It's all in my collection
It's all in my collection
You know that bird has flown
Can you forgive?
A bird you'll never own
And your love is a graveyard where the grasses grow low
And the people that lie here knew just what you know
Now your shovel's a shot glass and you drink your own toast
You're living your life as a ghost, a ghost, a ghost
See your love is a playground where the grasses grow low
All the people that play here reap just what they sow
And if your shovel is a shot glass and you drink your own toast
You're living your life as a ghost, a ghost, a ghost
When your will is gone and dreams will erase
When you're hanging on by your fingernails
When your will is gone and dreams will erase
While you're hanging on by your fingernails
Bring out your finest wines your holy shrines and let them go
Freed from the chains of what has remained of a life that you don't want to know
The bass and the drums will hammer it home with their marching band of the proud
Celebrate ages, all life stages, seas and the winds and the clouds
The message's been written from your prison, see what tomorrow will be
See what tomorrow will be
See what tomorrow will be
Got every reason to believe that all must decide to break free
Was it a tantrum when you said that all the laughs were on me
Then I'll know my bet will win when the saints go marching in
Then I'll know my bet will win when the saints go marching in
Go marching in