Traveling Salesmen

Revolution is knocking at the garden gate With pitchforks and spoons to guard against fate The people drench me with milk and holy water And stare at me as if i slept with their daughter I stand in white suit and a red tie I look like a half decent guy My hairs slicked back and my tongue coated in honey And i smell like old bars and good money With a tattered old suitcase in hand I try to get you to understand You don't have to sell your soul That isn't my goal Just buy some new high quality oven mits and don't throw a fit