1. |
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I know it's hard, babe
boiling in the kitchen.
I know it's hard, babe
digging in the sun.
I know it's hard
when all your friends have hidden
and you're left their work
while they are off to run.
While they're away...
You can play with my heart.
It's pretty cheap, but it's a start.
Kitten, tear it all apart;
it's better than string.
You can play with my heart.
It's nothing good but it's a start.
Leave it choking in the dark
with everything.
You got a lot
and still you're bored and cranky.
You pass the time
just hanging up your clothes.
You pass the time
complaining like you're aching
cuz you got a lot
but you got none of those
sweet things that stay...
You love me now
but wait until you're hungry.
When I can't feed you
we'll see how long it lasts.
When I can't reach you
we'll see who you marry.
You want a future;
I'm a student of the past.
But let's meet today...
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2. |
Harriet
02:53
|
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You gave your heart to an idiot
who used it like a towel
after swimming in pools full of lady juice
while you just sat and scowled.
The carpet was dry or the carpet was wet;
either way, you didn't notice, Harriet.
I met you alone on your battlefield's
blackened, barbed plateau.
You said no one talks quite like I do
when I said: like smoke we flow,
but soon like jelly we are bound to set
jiggling under the sun, Harriet.
Then like a child in the coat racks, you disappeared
right as I got used to you
asking me to tear down the fence
or at least to give you a boost.
Then you had to ask if you were pretty yet.
How was I to answer, Harriet?
Zeus fell down from the sky with your frown
when he gave you his arms and his mouth.
He gave you his heart like an idiot would
as you fled suddenly to the south.
Life is a joke I never did quite get
and I guess you're the jester, Harriet.
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3. |
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4. |
Pot of Gold
03:17
|
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Babby, be kind. Don't torture his tied-up, kidnapped mind with answers to questions you left behind. Aren't there still so many leprechauns to find with their pot of gold?
When you're all alone
and the sun has set
and you're getting cold
Babby, be good. Nail Jesus so gently to the wood. Not many have ever understood; there's a kind of pain that we know one day could prove a pot of gold.
When you're all alone
and you missed your turn
and you're getting old
Babby, be free! Like a fish, flopping out of the sea! Like the killer in an unsolved mystery! Like us, when in our poverty we'd found a pot of gold.
We were each alone
and there was nothing
else to hold.
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Alex Rake and the Leaves Mission, British Columbia
Alex Rake is a songwriter, poet, and playwright from the Fraser Valley and the Leaves are his friends.
They yell and improvise all over troubadour songs.
linktr.ee/alextherake
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