歌曲 | No Provenance |
歌手 | Joanna Newsom |
专辑 | Have One on Me |
下载 | Image LRC TXT |
Allelu, allelu: | |
I have died happy, | |
and lived to tell the tale to you. | |
I have slept for forty years, | |
and woke to find me gone. | |
I woke safe and warm in your arms. | |
Not informed of the natural law, | |
squatting, lordly, on a stool, in a stall, | |
we spun gold clear out of straw. | |
And, when our bales of bullion | |
were stored, | |
you burned me like a barn. | |
I burned safe and warm in your arms. | |
I'm afraid of the Big Return. | |
There's a certain conversation lost, | |
and that loss incurred | |
with nobody remaining, | |
to register who had passed this way, | |
in the night, | |
in the middle of the night | |
(negating their grace and their sight), | |
till only I remember, or mark, | |
how we had our talk: | |
We took our ride, | |
so that there was no-one home, | |
and the lights of Rome | |
flickered and died. | |
And, what's more, | |
I believe that you knew it, too; | |
I think you saw their flares, | |
and kept me safely unawares, | |
in your arms. | |
The grass was tall, and strung with burrs, | |
I essayed that high sashay which, | |
in my mind, was my way; | |
you hung behind, in yours. | |
Anyhow, she did not neigh. | |
I do not know | |
what drew our eyes to hers; | |
that little black mare did not stir, | |
till I lay down in your arms. | |
Poor old dirty little dog-size horse!-- | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of course; | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of pride. | |
That poor old nag, not four palms wide, | |
had waited a long time, | |
coated in salt, | |
buckled like a ship run foul of the fence. | |
In the middle of the night, | |
she'd sprung up, | |
no provenance, | |
bearing the whites of her eyes. | |
And you, with your | |
'arrangement' with Fate, | |
nodded sadly at her lame assault | |
on that steady old gate, | |
her faultlessly etiolated fishbelly-face; | |
the muzzle of a ghost. | |
And, pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
via satellite feed, | |
tell us, who was it | |
that you then loved the most? | |
Pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
leave a trail that leads | |
straight back down to the farm. | |
Lay me down | |
safe and warm in your arms. |
Allelu, allelu: | |
I have died happy, | |
and lived to tell the tale to you. | |
I have slept for forty years, | |
and woke to find me gone. | |
I woke safe and warm in your arms. | |
Not informed of the natural law, | |
squatting, lordly, on a stool, in a stall, | |
we spun gold clear out of straw. | |
And, when our bales of bullion | |
were stored, | |
you burned me like a barn. | |
I burned safe and warm in your arms. | |
I' m afraid of the Big Return. | |
There' s a certain conversation lost, | |
and that loss incurred | |
with nobody remaining, | |
to register who had passed this way, | |
in the night, | |
in the middle of the night | |
negating their grace and their sight, | |
till only I remember, or mark, | |
how we had our talk: | |
We took our ride, | |
so that there was noone home, | |
and the lights of Rome | |
flickered and died. | |
And, what' s more, | |
I believe that you knew it, too | |
I think you saw their flares, | |
and kept me safely unawares, | |
in your arms. | |
The grass was tall, and strung with burrs, | |
I essayed that high sashay which, | |
in my mind, was my way | |
you hung behind, in yours. | |
Anyhow, she did not neigh. | |
I do not know | |
what drew our eyes to hers | |
that little black mare did not stir, | |
till I lay down in your arms. | |
Poor old dirty little dogsize horse! | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of course | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of pride. | |
That poor old nag, not four palms wide, | |
had waited a long time, | |
coated in salt, | |
buckled like a ship run foul of the fence. | |
In the middle of the night, | |
she' d sprung up, | |
no provenance, | |
bearing the whites of her eyes. | |
And you, with your | |
' arrangement' with Fate, | |
nodded sadly at her lame assault | |
on that steady old gate, | |
her faultlessly etiolated fishbellyface | |
the muzzle of a ghost. | |
And, pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
via satellite feed, | |
tell us, who was it | |
that you then loved the most? | |
Pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
leave a trail that leads | |
straight back down to the farm. | |
Lay me down | |
safe and warm in your arms. |
Allelu, allelu: | |
I have died happy, | |
and lived to tell the tale to you. | |
I have slept for forty years, | |
and woke to find me gone. | |
I woke safe and warm in your arms. | |
Not informed of the natural law, | |
squatting, lordly, on a stool, in a stall, | |
we spun gold clear out of straw. | |
And, when our bales of bullion | |
were stored, | |
you burned me like a barn. | |
I burned safe and warm in your arms. | |
I' m afraid of the Big Return. | |
There' s a certain conversation lost, | |
and that loss incurred | |
with nobody remaining, | |
to register who had passed this way, | |
in the night, | |
in the middle of the night | |
negating their grace and their sight, | |
till only I remember, or mark, | |
how we had our talk: | |
We took our ride, | |
so that there was noone home, | |
and the lights of Rome | |
flickered and died. | |
And, what' s more, | |
I believe that you knew it, too | |
I think you saw their flares, | |
and kept me safely unawares, | |
in your arms. | |
The grass was tall, and strung with burrs, | |
I essayed that high sashay which, | |
in my mind, was my way | |
you hung behind, in yours. | |
Anyhow, she did not neigh. | |
I do not know | |
what drew our eyes to hers | |
that little black mare did not stir, | |
till I lay down in your arms. | |
Poor old dirty little dogsize horse! | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of course | |
swaying and wheezing, | |
as a matter of pride. | |
That poor old nag, not four palms wide, | |
had waited a long time, | |
coated in salt, | |
buckled like a ship run foul of the fence. | |
In the middle of the night, | |
she' d sprung up, | |
no provenance, | |
bearing the whites of her eyes. | |
And you, with your | |
' arrangement' with Fate, | |
nodded sadly at her lame assault | |
on that steady old gate, | |
her faultlessly etiolated fishbellyface | |
the muzzle of a ghost. | |
And, pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
via satellite feed, | |
tell us, who was it | |
that you then loved the most? | |
Pretty Johnny Appleseed, | |
leave a trail that leads | |
straight back down to the farm. | |
Lay me down | |
safe and warm in your arms. |