Letra de 'Pardon My French' de Band Of Susans
Pardon My French es una canción de Band Of Susans cuya letra tiene innumerables búsquedas, por lo que hemos decidido que merece tener su lugar en este sitio web, junto con otras muchas letras de canciones que los internautas desean conocer.
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The hollow point bullet that bares my name was sold up in the Bronx just yesterday
The poison-tipped arrow that will pierce my heart was sold under the counter at a liquor store
The voice of God is Charlton Heston, he's told the FBI they should have me arrested
The bullets will fly but he'll never get the message that people with guns can never be trusted
Pardon my French but you've failed the test
Come on out of the trench with your hands on top of your head
In the beginning life sucked
You're hoping for a ditch but you end up in a rut
Now my radio reception is getting so much better
When I brush my teeth twice I can even get the weather
The voices never tell me just what I should do
But they make some good suggestion I can't refuse
They say the end is coming soon and life's on big cartoon
Milk cartons tell a story that I know is pretty gory
Those friends of my friends are enemies of mine
It's not hard to explain since there's no one on the line
It's been so long since I've had a full deck
I'm a few cards short and that's as close as I get
And I say Keith unroll the girl in the rug
You once were so cool but now you're fucked
When you wake up from this you'll need to look for new drugs
It's just like old times, you're about to get mugged
When they broke into my place I was chained to a chair
The channels still were switching but I didn't care
With a blink of my eyes I can see any show
It doesn't even matter that the picture tube's blown
So coming soon to Machete TV
Montel, Geraldo and Oprah and me
I'm guest number one
He drives a Mack truck
He married his daughter when they both were on drugs
There's a ghost of a chance
Pinhead angels can dance
We'll ask our next guest when she snaps out of her trance
So now let us remember our dear departed host
We're on the edge of our seats at the chance of his ghost
We're stalking all the stalkers
Our faith replaced our walkers
The Virgin's tears are real or the priest's a fast talker
Pardon my French, your brain's been benched
You've failed the test, pardon my French
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