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We are the high street service trays coming to take you away |
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Pasadena '68, with speed on your breakfast plate |
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Aunt cancer calls them happy pills |
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They keep her calm and cool until he leaves |
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The moccasin skin obsession leather thigh, white tennis skirt so high |
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The eyes of nine are new and kind when the hair's not gray, it's white |
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And grandpa burns an ascot noose |
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Can't tie the tassles on his shoes, leave me |
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Oh god, stop tearing off the roof |
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Of my experimental bathroom |
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It's the only thing that's halfway mine |
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And not for your prying or lying eyes |
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These are the red-eyed politics, the cocktail revisionists |
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War room rules, no wives or kids, hear men sing the boy in them |
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The hedge casts heroes late across the lawn, the valley hunt militia men all gone |
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Thought we had the lock in '54, now the maid owns the house next door, what's more |
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Swims in the pool she used to clean |
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Our new king looks like a queen |
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Leave me |
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The empire's melting like ice cream |
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On the altar of the sun |
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This skin we've stretched for centuries |
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It's faded, it's fraying, it's meaningless to me |
