BURN THE RIVER DRY
© 1996 Mike Pratt/Jim White

Door is locked... .no one’s home...
frame is empty... .picture’s missing...
throw that rock right through the window.
Hey, I know him, he’s a singer.
Roam around... another town... looks like Phoenix, Arizona...
borrow the car from it’s owner.
That sleepy-head... he’s dreaming the dreams of suburbia.
Yeah suburbia.

Me, I don’t care... I just pay what it takes to feel alive.
Cause somehow somewhere,
hell everyone I know is waiting...
just waiting to burn the river dry.

And nothing works more than once,
it keeps you restless, always moving
fretful searching for a brand new spanking form of deliverance.
Movies stars... heroin,
dreams of wild old fucking grandeur!
Snap your fingers, now you’re famous...
Close your eyes as you sell out
to all them suckers that you hate.
Yeah, them suckers that you hate.

Me, I don’t care... I just pay what it takes to feel alive
Somehow, somewhere
everyone I know is waiting...
just waiting to burn that river dry.
Burn that river dry.

Hands that once reached for heaven
grabbing at the penny in the sewer.
Smell of your soul burning on the skewer,
and all that dirt that you have swallowed.
The howling voice from the closet,
better run away just because it
seems to know a little bit too much about
all them shallow graves that you got buried
in the field of your experience.

Me, I don’t care... I just pay what it takes to feel alive.
Somehow somewhere, hell everyone I know is waiting...
just waiting to burn that river dry.