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Brock Zeman



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Brock Zeman

Claws

Tin room is cackling like an old man with a belly full of wine
And the rain washed the moon right off of the sky
There's a thick fog rolling right across the road
And it looks like the Devil's cigarette smoke

Clawed its way on up, on up from the ground
Clawed its way on up, from the ground, from the ground
Somebody must have forgot to shut the gates of hell
It clawed its way on up from the ground

I said to my sorrow “I'm gonna shed you once and for all”
And the shovel said to the dirt “Get on outta my hole”
I packed it down nice and neat, then I walked away
Thorny brambles were growing everywhere the very next day

Clawed its way on up, on up from the ground
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Clawed its way on up from the ground, from the ground
I tried setting them on fire and I tried hacking them down
It clawed its way on up from the ground

There is misery weighing down a chilly October wind
I'm watching out my window, wondering just where it's gonna land
Hell is standing room only and they're running out of air
If heaven don't open up them gates soon boys, you better beware

They'll be clawing on up, on up from the ground
They'll be clawing on up from the ground, from the ground
The mud will get soft and let out a hissing sound
As they're clawing on up from the ground