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put the knife under the flame

you won't feel any pain

hold this teacloth in your mouth

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dead donkey in the snow

down by where the ferns grow

saw its spirit leaving south

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we went out on the tear

and we danced the carpets bare

when i drenched the mid week doubt

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my nerves they got shot

i deserved what i got

a left hook in a bout

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i taped the microphone to the chair

and sang through the speaker

down the cables i did shout

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there's a tape of you talking

buried in an attic somewhere

i asked down the main street for it

no one knows a thing about it

for a poultice we'll soak some bread

then we'll carry you to bed

with or without

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