I don't need a skin art statement, to let you know baby, where I been.
There's a yin and yang scar on my left middle finger about the size of a baby aspirin.
I focus on it when things are quiet, and I can chew a tequila worm,
and I try to figure out where on earth I could've got that weird ass burn.
Maybe it don't mean a god damn thing
Maybe it's the mark of Cain
Maybe I'm a prophet of the end of things,
or maybe I'm just insane.
Maybe I was probed by aliens one night on a darkened road
and they marked me with this stupid brand, and one day I'll just explode.
Could have happened when I was hallucinating on that exotic fuckin' dope
that we wrapped in a page of Revelations while making gin toasts to the pope.
Maybe some damn orderly had some fun at that awful place
where you thought I'd stay locked away. Man you shoulda seen your face
when one year later I returned to claim what was left of my stash.
How they stuttered like a grinder's monkey, and paid me off in cash.