1. |
Calling For More
03:34
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Come now, the day has ended and given us back to ourselves
so pour me a glass of blackberry wine.
Speak to me of every annoyance, every triumph,
every hour stolen by chores of pressing insignificance,
lists longer than the paper they were written on
and secondary infections of administration.
For now we are retrospective surgeons,
for now we’re calling for more.
Next thing you know here’s the pink glow of three glasses cradled
and it’s shoes off and feet up, resting on tables.
We are sofa-ridden figures, reclining and proclaiming,
dissecting and explaining every finding of the day.
And I am ranting about chasing coyotes
along the riverbanks and the infinite freeways
and you’re announcing the names
at the Idiot’s Olympic Games.
For now we are emperors of the living room,
for now we’re calling for more.
Five down and the time to think before you speak grows.
You’re extracting drunken philosophy from the mundane cacophony
and I begin to run the risk of becoming a little fatalistic.
For now we are slurring academics.
Just one last glass and I can’t,
I can’t appear to see straight anymore.
For now we are conquered, staggering retreaters.
For now, we’re calling for bed
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2. |
Chart Toppers
03:34
|
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|
Somewhere back home they each have a mother
who tied up their shoelaces when they were younger
and I don’t hate them, but I hate that we create them.
Give it a year or two and we’ll forget them
and a year or two later there’ll be state corrections involved
and they’ll suddenly look so old.
Then someone new will come rushing to save us
and the fever about them will become contagious
and we’ll wonder how we ever lived without them.
We all go out searching for our own messiah,
but increasingly everything should be marked ‘buyer beware’,
because there’s nothing there
Do we make them to love them or are they made for us?
Do you need them to mean anything in the chorus?
Are you satisfied with the shit you buy?
It’s broadcasted escapism
and creative prostitution.
It’s the soundtrack of delusion
playing to distract you from anything that affects you.
Playing to teach your kids that fame is all there is.
Playing out the life you wish you had.
They’re just five pretty boys
and she just has an acceptable voice,
but we’ve got nothing but love to give them
because this is our religion.
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3. |
Familiar Strangers
05:11
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|
There’s a sadness clinging to the corners of her mouth.
She’s starting to look older, but aren’t we all.
I can see that something’s happened since last week.
Maybe a lover left, maybe a debt arrived,
maybe it was just a sleepless night,
but she won’t say, she just orders the same as last Friday.
Things get quiet around the tables,
like everyone’s just exhaled at the same time.
Her shoulders shudder, lungs linger.
Breath caught as his spectre looms to haunt her.
She wears the tell-tale left hand tan,
a reminder, branded on her skin, of when she loved him.
Maybe she heard he’s already replaced her.
Maybe she heard he’s already erased her.
Maybe she heard that they have a house now,
where they can lie together,
where they can watch the weather take over the sea,
while she drifts out as a memory,
sitting in some cafe with me
and the inadequate empathy of “Thank God it’s Friday”
She blinks and with a noncommittal smile starts fussing with her purse,
proving again that small talk always makes things worse.
Still I wish I could tell her,
even though I don’t know her
and I’m just a familiar stranger,
I would listen, if she needed.
I would notice if she faded away.
Raincoats and red scarves and features bracing for the cold
and with a glance at me, turns to leave.
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4. |
You've Already Left Me
03:14
|
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|
Another dull day, the smell of cigarettes and disinfectant.
The Parisian lovers we once were have woken up hungover in Texas.
And I hate to say it, I hate to break it to you,
but we’re on the way out, this love is down for the count.
And it feels like that overrated Bill Murray movie,
it feels like you’ve already left me.
Another silence, another night devoid of any notion of romance.
The cold distance between us is almost enough to save the melting ice caps.
And I hate to say it, I hate to break it to you,
but the American Congress has got a better shot at making meaningful progress.
And it feels like that overrated Bill Murray movie,
it feels like you’ve already left me.
Another argument, the sound of breaking china and a front door slammed.
A final moment of tension is overcome with everything that’s gone left unmentioned.
And I hate to say it, I hate to break it to you,
but you’re not so perfect and you’ve definitely never been much of a lover.
And it feels like every single Richard Curtis movie,
there’s an old school soul track playing for me.
And it feels like something starring Hugh Grant,
because it feels like I’m finally free.
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5. |
America
02:50
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|
America, you’re the best reality show.
When you’ll end, well no one quite knows, but we enjoy watching.
Film stars and fast cars and the NRA,
politicians who are secretly gay.
Clear skin and clear skies and equality too,
unless the majority doesn’t like you.
America, you’re an inspirational force
with your paradoxical laws and world-stage agenda.
Lip-syncing teenagers prancing on stage,
straight people only on St Patrick’s day.
Religion in politics and science class.
Evolution? Oh please don’t make us laugh!
America, we all sleep soundly at night
knowing you will fight the good fight in the name of justice.
Implants and touch-ups and liposuction,
mayors who in secret love cocaine’s seduction
and children with rifles and old men with bibles
and forgotten hair-metal world tour revivals.
America, well one day you’re gonna explode.
China will call in for what’s owed and you will go bankrupt.
Crazy liberals with their “global warming”
when four men on horseback are the real warning.
And only the rich can afford to get sick,
everyone else is just deep in the shit.
America, you’re the best reality show.
When you’ll end, well no one quite knows, but we enjoy watching.
America, you’re the best reality show
and we will miss you when you go off the air.
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