Brandi Carlile - Broken Horses

I wear my father's leatherOn the inside of my skinI'm a tried and weathered womanBut I won't be tried againDon't think that you can comeFor me without your Sunday bestYou had better call your priestAnd hope the devil gets the restBefore I doOh, and I will doI've worn the jester's bellsAnd I have vanished with the foolsI have worshiped at the altar of thePuppet master's ruleI have held my tongue too many scenesBefore the final actWith my children in the cheap seatsAnd a zipper on my backThanks to youNo, thanks to youTethered in wide open spacesIn fields that lead for milesRight into the barrel of a gunMendin' up your fences with myHorses runnin' wildOnly broken horses know to runOh, I have ever so politely treaded softly for your praiseI have whispered through the tearsAnd pleaded sweetly to your faceIt is time to spit you outLike lukewarm water from my mouthI will always taste the apathyBut I won't pass it downEnough with youYou, youTethered in wide open spacesIn fields that lead for milesRight into the barrel of a gunMendin' up your fences with myHorses runnin' wildOnly broken horses know to runOh, I wear my father's leatherOn the inside of my skinI'm a tried and weathered womanBut I won't be tried againDon't think that you can comeFor me without your Sunday bestYou had better call your priestAnd hope the devil gets the restBefore I doOh, and I will doTethered in wide open spacesIn fields that lead for milesRight into the barrel of a gunMendin' up your fences with myHorses runnin' wildOnly broken horses know to run