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The Decemberists
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The Tain, Pts. 1-5
here upon this pillow made of reed and willow you're a fickle little twister are you sweet on your sister? your fallow won't leave you alone.
and granted for their pleasure possesions laid to measure she's a salty little pisser with your cock in her kisser but now she's a will of her own.
damn your ankles and eyes wide from you fingernails to your ponytails too. king of the insects and the m-5 over charlemagne in a motorcade too.
and baby needs a new prize baby needs a new and shiny prize.
in this place called heavenly you were born here. this place called heavenly you were born here. you were born here.
and now all the marchers descend from high i will dedicate all of my awakenings to this.
and damn all the angles that opress my sight i will bleed your heart through a samovar soon.
in this place called heavenly you were born here. this place called heavenly you were born here. you were born here.
they settled dust in your hair to watch you shake and shout it out. with our armaments bared we shed our bags and travel alls.
from the lee of the wall he comes in the chang and the chariot and all his eunuchs in thrall can scarce lift his line and lariat.
here com loose his hounds to blow me down.
blow me down.
on this stretch of ground i'll lay me down.
lay me down.
to sleep.
and now stricken with pangs that tear at our backs like thistle down 更多更詳盡歌詞 在 ※ Mojim.com 魔鏡歌詞網 the mirror's soft silver tain reflects our last and birthing hour
here com loose his hounds to blow me down.
blow me down.
on this stretch of ground i'll lay me down.
lay me down.
to sleep.
o the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin as you climb up hillside, forest and fen.
your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine your memories wrapped within paper and twine.
the room that you lie in is dusty and hard sleeping soft babies on piles of yards of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk.
when the dawn commes to greet you, you'll rise with clothes on of cattle and maidens and withered old queens. let the music carry you on.
the room that you lie in is dusty and hard sleeping soft babies on piles of yards of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk.
darling dear what have you done? your clothes are town, your make-up runs.
i ran through brambles, blooming thistle i washed my face in the river when you whistled me on.
darling dear, what hav eyou done? your hands and face are smeared with blood.
the chaplain came and called me out to beat and to butcher his mother's sow
but darling dear, they found him dead this morning on the riverbed.
but hush now darling, don't you cry. your reward's in the sweet by-and -by. hush now baby, don't you cry. your reward's in the sweet by-and-by.
and now we've seen your powers softly stretch the hours you're a fickle little twister are you sweet on your sister? as now you go wandering home.
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