Pigs Fly

The painter cries when the paint dries I don't see worth in all his white lies He better run when those pigs fly This writer's got guns and those wild eyes The painter hides with the train times He knows the smoke is not a good sign He doesn't know he's already died I've killed him more than a dozen times The painter cries when his insides Get thrown around on the playground Drive that knife inside of his gut now Twist that blade and drop his scrawny knees down I've heard the words of the lord, loud She says my soul is ready hell bound I've seen the colour of the paint now It's red like blood and rushing through this town The painter hides with the train times He knows the smoke is not a good sign He doesn't know he's already died I've killed him more than a dozen times