Text: Dead Weather. Horehound. So Far From Your Weapon.

:
There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole

You're so far from your weapon
And the place you were born

There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole

You're so far from your weapon
And you want go home

I try to give you whiskey
But I never do work
Suddely you're begging me
To do so much work

I knew it from the get go
The bullet was cursed
Ever sunce I had you
Every little things hurts

You wanna get up ? Let go ?
I say no

You dream of seeing fire in them hills
But you better wipe that smile from your lips
Which of us will be the one to go?
He who hits the road's the one who lives