You'll be the death of me, TBYou'll be the death of me, Timmy BrownSo this is how it goes. gutted voice tearing a melody above the notes of the piano, weightlessly caressed like the woman from the Gulf War with long red hair, she healed your scars with that hair and it's evident in your song how you remember – You weren't going to live long anyway She didn't really love her husband anywayAnd this is how it goes. Scotch sitting above your notations, cigarette smoke curling from your right hand they said you had been stabbed in the throat and the narcotics just ease the pain e