His spit is worth more than her work
Pass the purse to the pugilist
He’s a prizefighter
He brought rings and he owns kin
And now he’s swingin’
And now he’s the champion
Hey revolver, don’t mothers make good fathers?
Revolver
A potless domain
Hiders festerning hopes she’s certain there’s more
pictures of fields without fences
Her body numbs as he approaches the door
Hey revolver, don’t mothers make good fathers?
Revolver

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