Lost Art Of Murder / The Good Old Days (Live At The S.E.C.C.)

Roll a four, roll a nine
Find yourself washed up in paradise
Just like before, you never used to mind
Someone else washed up in paradise, everyday

What a nice day for a murder
You call yourself a killer, but the only thing that you're killing now is your time
There's nothing absurder
Than a burd', it's just a burden to your heart, soul, body, spirit and mind
Oh, don't look at me like that, she won't take you back
I just said too much, you've been far too unkind

Get up off your back, stop smoking that
You could change your life but, did you think you'll change their mind?

Roll a four, roll a nine
Find yourself washed up in paradise
All the fours to all the nines
So I lost my phone, entirely, guys
At the pace you go

What a nice day for a murder
You say you're a killer, but the only thing that you're killing now is your time
There's nothing absurder than a burd'
It's just a burden to your heart, soul, body, spirit and mind
Oh, don't look at me like that, she won't take you back
I just said too much, you've been too unkind

Get up off your back, stop smoking that
She could change her life for you, and you just might change her mind

If Queen Boadicea is long dead and gone
Spirit in the children's children's children
Oh, it lives on

And if Elvis, he was the King, had his piece of the pie
(This is the name of his latest flame)
(What a lame name for his latest flame)
Well, now his century's over and I'm having mine
(This is the name of his latest flame)

If you've lost your faith in love and music
Oh, the end won't be long
Because if it's gone for you, I too may lose it
So that would be wrong

I've tried so hard to keep myself from falling
Back into my bad old ways
And it drives my heart to always hear you calling
Calling for the good old days

'Cause there were no good old days