I want a girl I can take a bullet for
I mean the kind of girl that’s gonna jump up on the bank teller’s window with a single pump action shotgun and tell everyone to get the fuck down while I stuff our retirement into canvass bags. I want the kind of girl that wears her jeans tight enough to fit my hand and a handgun in. I want the rebel yell coming out of her like that bat that just flew in from hell, had it’s head bit off for fun when crazy train came on. The daft punk that would walk in and sweet to the cops just to get the keys to my jail cell. Or maybe she’d just strap some cable to the bars and pull the wall out in her monster truck. God we’d spend hours just basking in the sunlight of our truck bed, we wouldn’t need anything but a tank of gasoline and some ideas we’d been chasing around our heads awhile. Maybe we’ll go down to Mexico, and pretend we’re natives, hell why stop there when we could go where ever we wanted south of the border.
When our bellies are pumped full of lead and they write about us in the papers, something about the American dream getting gunned down on the highway by national security agents, the federal bureau and a handful of local state troopers and city cops, we’ll let our love flow out of every smoking hole in our bodies through which all the rags to riches miracles shine and let ourselves mingle hot and redly down the pavement til it hits them little yellow lines that tell you when you can pass. They lied about this pass. We don’t collect $200 from the bank.
They’ll pick up the pieces of ourselves someday, little scraps, by children playing on this deserted patch of road. They’ll find my lips, and I’ll whisper, and they’ll find your ear- you’ll hear. And we’ll start all over again as some Sun and Moon story crossing stars like eyes you’ll spare the rod and spoil the child. And love, love like so many others things ain’t. You’ll love like no one else in the world could contain. And you’ll love- into madness, into the scalding white eyes of truth, into the depths only a soul knows- you’ll love. And ain’t it a crying shame, yes sir, ain’t it a crying shame- no one understands the ravings of a mad man.