Traveling Salesmen
Revolution is knocking at the garden gate
With pitchforks and spoons to guard against fate
The people drench me with milk and holy water
And stare at me as if i slept with their daughter
I stand in white suit and a red tie
I look like a half decent guy
My hairs slicked back and my tongue coated in honey
And i smell like old bars and good money
With a tattered old suitcase in hand
I try to get you to understand
You don't have to sell your soul
That isn't my goal
Just buy some new high quality oven mits
and don't throw a fit
Copyright © Pat Mccombs | Year Posted 2011
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