Mass Graves
written by: Jak Locke
written by: Jak Locke
version 1:
from Heavy Root (December 20th 1999) (3:48)
Down home life burnin up in a blink
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
version 2:
from Dusk Segment (October 2nd 2001) (4:44)
Down home life burnin up in a blink
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
version 3:
from Songs For Cello At Night (May 16th 2004) (4:57)
Down home life burnin up in a blink
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
Only when you're plastered can you start to think
Necromalic child of a filtered life
Living for the cold of an autopsy knife
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Fill up your musket with the telephone fuel
Self-effaced totem pole, facetless jewel
Hangin from the rafters with a bat in your hair
Bones in your eyeballs and you wonder why they stare
Who digs your grave Mister Cotton
Son of a biscuit slow hand what you gotten
The soup is cold and all your crops are rotten
Buckshot soda and your three-legged horse is trottin
Mass graves like a K&B pencil
Mass graves your name is next on the stencil
earliest live performance: November 27th 1999