The smoke cloud billows out his mouth
Like a freight train through a small town
The jokes that he told across the bar
Were revolting and far too loudThey shake their heads, saying, "God help her" when I
Tell 'em he's my man
But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger
I can fix him, no really I can
And only I canThe dopamine races through his brain
On a six-lane Texas highway
His hand, so calloused from his pistol
Softly traces hearts on my face
And I could see it from a mile away
A perfect case for my certain skillset
He had a halo of the highest grade
He just hadn't met me yetThey shake their heads, saying, "God help her" when I
Tell 'em he's my man
But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger
I can fix him, no really I can
And only I canGood boy, that's right
Come close, I'll show you heaven
If you'll be an angel all night
Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man
No really I canThey shook their heads, saying, "God help her" when I
Told 'em he's my man (I told 'em he's my man)
But your good Lord didn't need to lift a finger
I can fix him, no really I can (No really I can)Whoa, maybe I can't
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The Tortured Poets Department Lyrics
PoetryThe Tortured Poets Department. An anthology of new works that reflect events, opinions and sentiments from a fleeting and fatalistic moment in time - one that was both sensational and sorrowful in equal measure. This period of the author's life is n...