Fingers bent and broke,
like a promise in your coat,
feeding your daughter
like a dog.
Slivers in your side
will help you pull the blinds,
leaving yourself
and all you know.
Southside, and coming close to midnight.
There are still a thousand crimes to pay.
The books we couldn't find,
and the words we couldn't write,
searing through our bodies
like a knife.
The river leads us home,
we'll leave the rest to the unknown,
pocket the nighttime like a coin.
Southside, and coming close to midnight.
There are still a thousand mice to tame.
Leave our bible by the bed,
so you can rest your head,
Living in a dust bowl,
dead and dry.
Kiss your rosary,
you'll need them more than me.
You're tuckered out,
and someone needs to fight.
Southside, and coming close to midnight.
There are still a thousand different names.