Finch on Saturday

Boys, they've got wicked things on their minds
Before the father said you're toein' the line
Like a finch on Saturday, sin with wings
Give your tongue to God, on Sunday sing

It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die
But she was born to cry
To cry herself to sleep

Red cowards in the home of the brave
Rather the knaves and crooks that twist the good book
Peasants, paupers, pilgrims they are the same
They give their dollars to God but they need their pay

It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die
But she was born to cry
To cry herself to sleep