My guitar (spe-lang) screams a whisper, (dowm-chunka-dowm) speaks volumes, (a-weedlee-weedly-wee) in a single note (dairn). That cathartic anguish (spee-da-lee-da-lee), never crossed my lips (oo-wee-oo-wee). Hell has long since risen (chunka-chunka-ke-rang). I merely defend myself (bwee-ow-wow). I have no choice (dee-da-leedle-airn) If I want to live (dairn-chicka-lairn) something that resembles (dwow-do-wow-do-wow) life. (chomp) Loving punches. (deh-dehnt do-do-deh) The kiss of pain. (ka-runch-ka-ring) The pleasure bruises. (dik-dik dikka-dairn) My tireless guitar (ke-rang!) empowers me. (click)
Way Out West © 1993 Martin Scherer. E-mail: mscherer@tesserak.net tesserak