I have a mister with his finger on my trigger.
I'm standing steady, I know his grip is getting eager.
I lock his load down below, take it slow to the trigger.
I'm aiming straight until we blow to the trigger, trigger.
My boy wears the devil like a tailored suit.
You can taste that sulfur when he touches you.
You burn that symphony to my skin,
oh, make it burn through the thistle.
You can't pray this off your soul.
Lord, you can't leave it alone.
I'm learning any drink can be mixed down with silence
if you get a bit dangerous.
It's going to get a bit violent.
Now take a moment for the angel on your shoulder.
Now brush him off, brush him off, and push in further, further.
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