When the feeling comes it always leaves,

to the top of the hill,

the hill of thieves.

Brush that curious out.

Hurry away.

You've got the hole in your head to feel the breeze.



If you're gonna ride, baby,

ride athe wild horse.

Iwe can't drink no more,

but I'llwe'll try.

You can't find us, baby,

in the basement.

And itI slug your in your fucking head.