If it Ain't Been in a Pawn Shop, Then it Can't Play the Blues

I'm havin' dreams of seeing Jesus at the Wilson stop Crying' his eyes out, soaking the DARE t-shirt that he rocks As the tears drop and mix with the blood from his palms I compared his crown to yours and I began to scream psalms like Soup, soap, and souls, soup, soap, and souls non-stop Unfold so he can roll and get his cross back from the pawn shop Shocked no one can see him through this money green fog And just then he disappeared from two kids with seeing eye dogs They asked me who he was? Well how should I know just a wino But we saw him in Border's tearing price tags off bibles In this game of survival of the saved souls Until I know for sure I'll keep flyin' my tags with halos He can't breath because my brother's yellin' "fuck your soul" Cause in this lustful world righteousness ain't never tax deductible So fold your food stamps in gold collection plates Hoping that heaven's open Sunday as she shakes from hunger aches Mistakes these bullshit lessons her preachers stressing' But never once questioned how many blessings he paid for his new Lexus Profession, heaven's a million miles from Chicago We only see the stars when we're tippin' back a bottle Only see the stars when we're tippin' back a bottle He only sees the stars when he's tippin' back a bottle Why try to sleep? We don't dream as much as yesterday All our prayers infested and stress and rent to pay But ain't nobody hiring' on desire alone Try to find his way home but this silence is cold Like the Vietnam vet with the tires on his throne Eyes turned to stone holding' wild Irish rose With the time freezes froze he realizes it's his breath In a foggy bottle, To remind him he's dead Left to get worthless in this bus terminal He puffs an answer to his cancer, but the circle grows And echos in the subway "who's gonna save us" Sleeping under the newspaper, obituaries face up God bless you for your pennies, collects your spoils of war Spoils himself with a meal he paid a quarter for He's sorta short on... (soul) Can't afford a conversation Sure the cloud is chasin' the place his legs went It's gonna take a whole village to drown this witch But she floats over dreams, foams when he sips He misses his children, witnesses the buildings drop Disgusted with this rusted anchor called the Wilson stop Disgusted with this fuckin' rusted anchor Disgusted with this fuckin' rusted anchor called the Wilson stop Yo, if it ain't been in the pawn shop, then it can't play the blues If it ain't been in a pawn shop, then it can't play the blues If it ain't been in a pawn shop, then it can't play the blues If it ain't been in a pawn shop, then it can't play the blues Now can it? I guess we can all play the blues