We're building fires that will burn out in the morning.
The smell of books and hats that surrounds us.
Duffings, the leather that's trapped to my skin.
The strung of the buns that we make.
We feel the steam as it rises around us.
Hot from the soil that is cracking its back.
Duffings,
the leather
that's trapped to my skin.
Strung of the buns that we sing.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
We're building fires that will burn out in the morning.
The smell of books and hats that surrounds us.
Duffings, the leather that's trapped to my skin.
Strung of the buns that we make.
We feel the pulse sing from juncture to mountain.
Down through the vein and into the grain.
Strung is the shoulder that moves through the time.
Here is the land it can break.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down,
night long.
Work till your muscles bow down,
night long.
Work till your muscles bow down,
night long.
Duffings, the leather that's trapped to my skin.
Strung of the buns that we sing.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.
Work till your muscles bow down, night long.