Cold Stack

I'm going back,
Back to the days I was a cold stack,
Waiting to die on the shag rug,
Waiting to dine at the supper club,

Oh good God could I catch a break,
Like that cool little line on the back drape,
Clutching my head like a hammer,
Wishing my hand was a hammer,
And it goes.

Quit your talking back,
Flappin' them lips til your voice cracks,
Placing that weight on your mother's back,
If she only knew what kind of man he was, thus,

Crying good god from the bucket seat,
The lion, the witch, and Tom foolery,
Clutching my head like a hammer,
Wishing my hand was a hammer,
And it goes.