History - Bush

Gave my love 2 thousand yesterdays

Nothing is wrong

I am always a little late

Probably will probably won’t

Get this disease cut out of my throat

All of a sudden

You come my way

Baby believer i won’t be saved by morning after

Struggling my name slave turned to master

History moans

Mouth of father

Edge of my bed

Benzedrine telephone

Struggling to speak

Sicker than the sickest dog

Falling faster than a liar’s grin

We need to be saved from the shit we’re in

I believe in you i have found the perfect

Way

To bring me down i won’t be saved

By all your yesterdays piss on my grave

Piss on the the underlay

History moans

Mouth of our father

It’s the movement we’re after