1. |
Common Cold
03:37
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The drivers are out, and they're angry;
They're tearing up 99th -
In front of the fancy apartments
That tower above Sask. Drive.
They're looking to fight,
I saw it - the anger in their eyes.
They're looking to die,
I saw it - the anger in their eyes.
Out cold in a bed by the driveway,
They're stealing your grandma's car.
They're trashing it into a Beamer,
They didn't get that far.
They wanted a crime;
I get it - it's good to take a drive.
They wanted a crime;
I get it - it's good to feel alive.
Who's to fight? Who can right all these wrongs on their own?
You never feel right on a Sunday
Unless there's a Monday off.
You thought you'd acquire a good taste
But you came down with a cough.
You frighten the sky;
I see it - the fury in your eyes.
You're looking to fight;
I see it - the fury in your eyes.
Who's to fight? Who can right all these wrongs on their own?
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2. |
Markus
01:04
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Ah!
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3. |
Friend of the Bride
03:08
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It's just a jacket;
Now it's got a stain to match your skirt.
Crimson, cords and velvet;
Let's be thankful no one here was hurt.
If I walk you home I'll tell a bad joke,
So if you roll your eyes this one's on you.
You were a moment, the heart of the country,
I staked a flag; removed the tags.
And wiping the red from the butt of my sleeve
I saw bloody hands: stolen land.
Friend of the bride
Waiting to have his dance,
Worried he missed his chance
To show off his steps.
We prettied up,
Tailored our hems and tails,
Purse flasks and bathroom rails,
Jacks in the dark.
I made you laugh so hard you let your drink choke!
Medics in the wings for nights like this.
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4. |
My Kingdom For
04:36
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My kingdom for a garden to foster new relief
On the backdrop of romantic years that go at their own speed.
It's not a perfect surface; the fruit rolls from the shelf
And I'm of no mind to fix it with hands that are no help.
I'm thinking of chopping wood
Like a man of condition,
Like a man of the elements,
Like a man of conviction.
My kingdom for some context, for deliberate unease,
To clear a dirty conscience. It takes a rotten seed
To be a good Canadian.
Like a man of provision,
Like a man of the colony,
Like a man of revision.
As the sun sets on my time at the lectern
And I brace myself to learn how to listen,
There's little hope I'll grow into someone
Worth keeping around.
Thinking of chopping wood.
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5. |
Born and Raised
03:04
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There was soft country, mid August,
Lit up by headlights.
You fell through drive-ins, through diners,
Into a grave.
And you always expected to live out your prime in old age.
And you never expected to forget the sound of her voice.
She was all cheekbone, all leather, all Cash and Eastwood.
Gold-hearted, outsmarted, born and raised.
Now you stay up past midnight distilling sadness,
And make notes for home recipes for steeping ashes.
And you plant what you trap and you trap what you find where it hides.
And it bleeds in the soil, and it breeds a new life.
Because there's a small comfort in playing God when God won't listen.
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6. |
Over the Summer
03:12
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Over the summer, I learned to be funny
Without putting someone down,
And last I heard you're back in town.
You had another kid without another
Girl who got out.
I hope you both love your child.
When we were younger, you were so distant;
Pulling marbles from the garden.
And last I heard you had come out
In time for your birthday.
Happy birthday to you.
Over the summer, we had a good laugh
At your expense, and mine.
Sometimes we both cross the line.
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7. |
Saint Charm
04:07
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There sits still a tomb in a quiet place,
A lark carved in dust, an observant face.
And every week she is flowered by her children:
A daughter and a son.
And the daughter is the Saint of the Dry Charm,
And the son is the Saint of the Rubber Arm.
And they inherited a modest home where they turn the page.
Through the Summer will grow, through the Fall they will store so
In the Winter they can drink and endure, and in the Spring they will plant more.
And the daughter is the Saint of the Hard Earned Day,
And he is the Saint of the Rolling Hay.
But they inherited a quiet womb,
And gentle turns the page.
The base of the hearth, where their ashes spilled
Shines in the light of the morning still.
And every week they are left alone
And no one turns the page.
And she was the Saint of the Warm Laugh,
And he was the Saint of the Warm Hands.
And they passed their time in a quiet page
And left a corner folded.
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