I'm no longer the newborn, lord that's all I know as true, I've returned from the ocean, craddlin' the Denver Boot.
Bare feet walk the hills of Frisco, soft boys cut their eyes to me,
The truth is I let my down my Father, I throw my boots back in the water, they are hollow, they are hollow.
At the dear goat farm outside Denver, Father was living in his broken down coupe.
The helling held him in a bad way, his body revenged as he asked for the truth.
I cradled my Father in my arms, with my nails I scraped the sick away, I put my nail clips in a bottle, a trophy on the dash... but when the sun shine through the bottle it is hollow, it is hollow
I cant wear the Denver boot
I will bronze my Father's body,
mount it outside my factories,
the first will be a see-through glassworks,
the other will be a true goat farm,
I will blow perfect bottles,
I will squeeze the goats myself,
I will drown the world of it's helling,
I hope my will don't come up hollow...
Hollow...