P.O.S. - Handmade Handgun

I am a handmade handgun
Operated by paper crooks
Loaded up with bullets of blank pages torn from your little black book
You can call me all your favorites
Oh, I love those dirty looks
You know I'll be drunk and waiting on the steps of St. Anthony's Church

Knuckle-blood stains the doorframe
Frustration both ways
You see me knock, I see you gaze through the peeker
Watch me sneak far away
(bump bump bump bump,) as I push my please through the shades
I'm out of sight, for I know violence is nonsense from a dime
I spent your mind time stop for us, (caught up,)
Cost of a heart accosted, don't blink
Nothin's so strangled like us
Nothin deranged like that love
Nothin explains away the way I played like new things don't break
Live under your ribs, a toybox, an Apple plugin
Tuned to tune out, give out what's yours
Like when in doubt, play the mouse in the mouth like
Please don't let me die

But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep
Take a knee, spillin salt and shame up on your pretty feet
With a head full of bourbon, I do this
Though I love you and I think you hurt me on purpose

I am a handmade handgun

I thought of everything
Even your paper ring
The organs playin our song
Playin our song, so sing along
Hail to the graces
A blessing for the souls that walk about
Walk among you till this hour of death
Walk among you till this hour of death

(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen)

You come to find me, hopelessly
Wrapped around the gun, staring at the sun
Don't you fuckin lie to me
G'head and try it, see, God's witness
Pick a sense and listens, hidden
Layin down behind a line of ivy
He can hand you pure moments
Or quit you from every sense you got
Protect you with the spectacles, testicles, wallet watch
But the devil keeps an open shop
He pays his bills and fills his pots
Thanks to the single sable sheep, hidden in that hollow plot
It's a classic case of damned if you do, damned if you don't
And I'll be damned if I end up playing Job with God's loving hand on my throat
You could swear I traced a trail of wormwood slipping from the Empyrean
But Providence, just a myth if I aim to let my trigger pray
But you know me, I could never lay you down to sleep
I'm a prostrate paper tiger supplicating at your pretty feet
My mouth may run on a loaded gun and a belly full of bourbon
I only do this cuz I love ya, I know you'd never hurt me on purpose
I am a handmade hangun