Hands Beneath The Table

I'm as crooked as a dog’s leg
And gauche as I am, I can’t make things right
Fine for me to be the bad egg
In a baker’s dozen rotting through the night

But I feel just fine
Amidst the scoundrels and the rascals
With their teeth that shine
In silver scowls framed by the snout of jackals

While hands beneath the table clutch to the knives

True, I'm the king of liars
Tell me I'm the cause for all despair
You are preaching to the choir
Just call me “devil” and maybe I will care

But I feel alive
Creeping around along the fiends and ghouls
And here I thrive
When the smoke clears I’ll be the pope of fools

While hands beneath the table clutch to the knives

I'm a scumbag lotus eater
Blah blah blah blah blah et cetera

And you loath my ways
And think of me as the grotesque event
That ruins your day
When I appear to stain your pure intents

While hands beneath the table clutch to the knives
And I'm incorrigible, guess you were right