[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The Decemberists - Cocoon
This cocoon, caught in Vesuvius’ shadow
Only the ashes remain
And I waited there for you
Why couldn’t you?
Here we lie waiting for something to startle
To shake us from gravity’s pull
And so the sleeping hours are through
What can we do?
The sorry conclusion, the low dirty war, it happened before you came to
But this is solution, and this is amends
The joke always tends to come true
But there on your windowsill over the unmoving platoon
Written in paperback, the view to the quarterback’s room
Under waning moon
This quiet serves only to hide you
Provide you
What I knew: it’d come back to you
Take this palm, follow the lines here are written
And script out the rest of your life
And feel your fingers falling slack and all folding back
The tainted election, the hole in the sky
Command what is tried, what is true
But without solution, with feet on the ground
It won’t make a sound ‘til you’re through
So loosen your shoulderblades
This is your hour to make due
Because there on the timberline
Deep cold November shines through
Soft and absolute
As you lie before me now, like a shadow
on a pea-green sea
never thought that I would find you so hollow
laying into me
This cup of wine
all salt and brine’s made me sleepy
sorrow sows
a field of tears, that will never yield a single penny
that I don’t owe
got nothing to hold on to
wished for gold so I could buy you a palace
by the riverside
you’d come in and I would fill your diamond chalice
you were still alive
this cup of wine of salt and brine’s made me sleepy
sorrow sows
a field of tears, that will never yield a single penny
that I don’t owe
got nothing to hold on to
I’ve got nothing to hold on to
Were you sleepless, tearing at the air?
was the water everywhere?
were you fretful to wade into the room
I’d been wanting to hear from you
oh, no
hand it over
hand it over
you’re weary, lay him down
you did your time, so thank you very much
hand it over
hand it over
So now your hopes are all allayed
Would you hand it all away?
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The Decemberists - The Engine Driver
I’m a moneylender
I have fortunes upon fortunes
Take my hand for tender
I am tortured, ever tortured
And if you don’t love me, let me go
And if you don’t love me, let me go
And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
I am a writer, I am all that you have home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
I’m an engine driver
On a long run, on a long run
Would I were beside her
She’s a long one, such a long one
And if you don’t love me, let me go
And if you don’t love me, let me go
And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The Decemberists - Eli The Barrow Boy
