Slow Death - Webb Wilder

I called the doctor

Up in the morning

I had a fever

It was a warning

She said there’s nothing I can prescribe

To keep your raunchy bag of bones alive

I got some money

Give me one more shot

She said go kill yourself

I said Thanks a lot

It’s a slow, it’s a slow, it’s a slow, it’s a slow death

I called the preacher

Oh holy holy

I begged forgiveness

And then he told me

He said there’s nothing I can prescribe

To keep your raunchy bag of bones alive

I got some money

Give me one more shot

He said Go kill yourself

I said Thanks a lot

I got to mainline

A hit of morphine

Except the mainline

Is like a bad dream

Slow death

Eat my mind away

Slow death

Turns my guts to clay

Slow death, slow death, slow death, slow death