Frozen into coats,
White girls of the North,
Filed past one, five and one
They are the fabled lambs,
A Sunday ham,
The ancient snow.
And they could float above the grass,
In circles if they tried,
A latent power I'm known to hide,
To keep some hope alive,
That a girl like I could ever try,
Could ever try.
So we just skirt the hallway signs,
A phantom and a fly,
Follow the lines and wonder why
There's no connection.
And weakened falling eyes,
In cheap shots from the tribe,
And we're often in MarcusÂ’ porch again,
Another afternoon with the gold head tunes,
And pilfered booze.
We wandered through the mama's house,
And the milk from the window lights,
Family portrait circa ninety-five,
This is that foreign land,
With the sprayed on tans,
And it all feels fine,
Beats circus slime,
So, when they tap our mundane heads,
To zombie-walk in our stead,
This town seems hardly worth our time,
And we'll no longer memorize or rhyme,
Too far along in our climb,
Stepping over what now towers to the sky,
With no connection.
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
So, when they tap our sunday heads,
To zombie-walk in our stead,
This town seems hardly worth our time,
And we'll no longer memorize or rhyme,
Too far along in our climb,
Stepping over what now towers to the sky,
With no connection.
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo
Oooh waooooooo waooooooo |
Björk:
The Shins:
