put my pants out

It's out of bounds, killer
The dogs can smell the shit you roll in, you know
we'd go away all the way back to the old parade
but with you pulling all our legs
we can't walk much
but we still talk much
bringing you sermon on the six
of an inflatable confessional booth for your postcard to styx
sticks and stones may cost us sixpence
but our words are only two cents
what you lose from the black in your head
you gain in the red
and the red is always a new shade to look through