A postcard of apple cores on spit strained wooded floors
|
I spent an evening getting practice looking bored
|
And there's a leaf on the sill but it won't be there tomorrow
|
Just some memory that I made it never really goes the way I planned it to
|
I'll tell it like you want all parts appeal and none that don't
|
I love your face the way it moves your murky mouth your eyelid brooms
|
And I'm feeling that cobweb apprehension
|
You're taking pictures of me as I fall down the stairs
|
And it seems so awful if not for my glasses and hair
|
You say I'm your white cast kid, I was born for your cares
|
Why you gotta label me now, why, why now?
|
So I opened up the door I know now what you're for
|
But still not who you are
|
So who, who, tell me who
|
And then you leaned into me and whispered rather softly
|
"Your feet don't fit the branch"
|
It never really goes the way I planned it to
|
I'll tell it like you want all parts appeal and none that won't
|
Like worthless words that you spit out, the foaming garbage of your mouth
|
I'm always listening; I go rummaging through a dumpster of speech
|
You're taking pictures of me as I fall down the stairs
|
It seems so awful but this never happened who cares
|
I'm your T.V. taught child; I'm your sweetest affair
|
When the alarm clock goes off you will disappear
|
But I loved your face the way it moved your murky mouth your eyelid brooms
|
|
-----------------
|
If Not For My Glasses
|
Dear and the Headlights |