Bottoms Up, Socrates Clutch
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "Bottoms Up, Socrates" by Clutch. Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
VERSE
They came marchin down the street in robes
In the spirit of Spanish Inquisition
Guitars and trombones
Mechanical monkeys make good musicians
Streets urchins, the smugglers and dingos
Dead languages and living man lingos
Put the relics of the saint in a glass box and march him around the block
PRE-CHORUS
Hangin on the words of a madman
Islands in the abyss
No use for the poet
When the hopeless seek no bliss
VERSE 2
Mason jars of petroleum
You know those kids don't play
And should you ever get ahold of them
I'll tell you exactly what they say:
"Time we told you son about the family curse"
And when they opened up the diary
To gain an explanation
They find only terminal verse
They came marchin down the street in robes
In the spirit of Spanish Inquisition
Guitars and trombones
Mechanical monkeys make good musicians
Streets urchins, the smugglers and dingos
Dead languages and living man lingos
Put the relics of the saint in a glass box and march him around the block
PRE-CHORUS
Hangin on the words of a madman
Islands in the abyss
No use for the poet
When the hopeless seek no bliss
VERSE 2
Mason jars of petroleum
You know those kids don't play
And should you ever get ahold of them
I'll tell you exactly what they say:
"Time we told you son about the family curse"
And when they opened up the diary
To gain an explanation
They find only terminal verse
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