Glorytellers
you aint on your way to hell
Lay the brush in the glovebox and drive
Thereâs a hush on the highway for days of nights
If you think youâre wrong just try
If you feel forlorn just cry
One last rose fixed to ribs with thread
Sears the snow with a single point of red
Itâs your emblem etched in ice with tires
Suddenly your mountains start with fires
Every Tuesday at the ward you prayed
All the prayers you can afford a single day
But thereâs something you have to tell
Mother you ainât on your way to hell
Graying curls collect each day in the drain
Chelsea girl R&R to feel the pain
Donât you dare turn it down
A mean old doctor will surely come around