~fasworthjbabaganoosh

And now, we proudly present songs perverse, and songs of lament. a couple of hymns of confession, and songs that recognize our sick obsessions. Sing along - I'm on the ugly organ.

Sing along- I'm on the ugly organ again. Sing along- I'm on the ugly organ, so lets begin.
There's no use in keeping secrets, everything I hide ends up in lyrics...so read on- accuse me when you're done-if it sounds like I did you wrong.

Our father, who art in heaven, save me from this wreck I'm about to drown in. Didn't I learn anything counting out my sins on rosary beads? The reverend plays on the ugly organ; he spews out his sweet ad salty sermon on the audience.

...So why do I think I'm any different?

I've been making money off my indifference. We all pass the hat around, 'This is my body', this is the blood I found on my hands after I wrote this album. Play it off as stigmata for crossover fans...some red handed slight of hand.

Cut it out - your self-inflicted pain is getting too routine, the crowds are catching on - to the self-inflicted song. Well, here we go again - the art of acting weak, fall in love to fail - to boost your CD sales and that CD sells - yeah, what a hit. You've got to repeat it, you gotta' sink to swim.

If at first you don't succeed you gotta recreate your misery 'cause we all know art is hard, young artists have gotta starve. Try, and fail, and try again. The comforts of repetition. Keep churning out those hits 'til it's all the same old shit.

Oh, a second verse! Well, color me fatigued. I'm hiding in the leaves in the CD jacket sleeve. I'm tired of entertaining some double-dipped meaning, a soft serve analogy. This drunken angry slur in thirty-one flavors. You gotta' sink to swim, immerse yourself in rejection. Regurgitate some sorry tale about a boy who sells his love affairs. You gotta' fake the pain, you better make it sting, you're gonna' break a leg when you get on stage and they scream your name "Oh, Cursive is so cool!"

You gotta sink to swim impersonate greater persons 'cause we all know art is hard when we don't know who we are

I wake alone, in a woman's room I hardly know. I wake alone- and pretend that I am finally home. The room is littered with her books and notebooks. I imagine what they say, like, 'Shoo fly, don't bother me,'

And I can hardly get myself out of her bed. For fear of never lying in this bed again. Oh Christ, I'm not that desperate. oh no- oh God- I am.

How'd I end up here to begin with? I don't know. Why do I start what I can't finish? Oh please, don't barrage me with questions to all those ugly answers. My ego's like my stomach- it keeps shitting what I feed it. But maybe I don't want to finish anything anymore. Maybe I can wait in bed 'til she comes home. and whispers.

"You're in my web now - I've come to wrap you up tight, so it's time to bite down."

I wake alone in a woman's room I hardly know. I wake alone - and pretend that I am finally home.

"Now I can't stop the monster I've created"

There's a time and a place, this is neither the time nor the place. "Where do I fit in, in this jigsaw of a relationship?!? Why should I play the fall guy to your love? I keep getting snubbed... what dumb luck, what dumb luck."

'So rub it in... in your dumb lyrics. Yeah, that's the time and place to wring out your bullshit. And each album I'll get shit on a little more, 'Who's Tim's latest whore?" Now, that's not fair - no, that's just obscene. I'll stop speaking for you if you stop speaking for me.

I'm writing songs to entertain, but these people... they just want pain. They want to hear my deepest sins, the songs from the ugly organ. And what comes out is a horrible mess, songs I can't forget what's been said and this guilt I can't shed. It still rings in my ears - Oh, get out the butcher's knife. I've been screaming for years but it gets me nowhere just get out the butcher's knife.

That organ's playing my song, but this song's gone on too long. What a day to sever such ugly extremities. "What a lovely day", says the butcher as he raises his arm.

So he would sulk and drink and mope and cross his arms and hope to die. And then a fairy came one night to bring this sorry boy to life. She pulled some strings and spun him about. That boy sprang up and began to shout, "My arms, my legs, my heart, my face they're alive!" And she would cry, "Liar, liar! What have I done? You're no lover, and I'm no fighter."

(The story goes on)

So he would buy her things and kiss her hair to show he was for real. And she would take those gifts and kisses though just stringing him along. She knew about those wooden boys - it's an empty love to fill the void. "Pinocchio! Oh boy, how your nose has grown!" So he would cry, "Liar, liar! I'll prove it to you!" But then it grew. He had grown tired of her, so it was true. He left her apartment and he walked all night long 'til he was stopped by the shore of the ocean. But still he walked on, amongst the whales and the waves, and screamed "Liar, liar!" And his wooden body floated away. He just drifted away.

And now I wonder how i was made...my arms, my legs, my heart, my face, my name is Driftwood.

Your gentleman caller...well, he's been calling on another.He loves his forbidden fruit...and as it dribbles down his chin he cries, "Baby, I've been drinking with some friends! Now how 'bout a little kiss..." Bad boy...rub his nose in it. What a mess....and he's playing dumb. Do do do do do do do do...

I'm not looking for a lover...all those lovers are liars....I'd never lie to you. You say you want to get even? Yeah, you want to get your bad man good? Well, are you in the mood?

You bad girl...does it feel good, being bad? And getting worse? Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do...

But in the morning, on the sober dawn of Sunday...you're not sure what you have done. Who told you love was fleeting? Sometimes men can be so misleading to take what they need from you. Whatever you need to make you feel like you've been the one behind the wheel. The sunrise is just over that hill, the worst is over. Whatever I said to make you think that love's the religion of the weak..this morning we love like weaklings.
Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do...
The worst is over.
Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do...
The worst is over.

Harold walks down any street of this town both crier and witness. The sun drops, clouds shift, his legs twitch, the clocks chime on cafes, pharmacies, and dime stores, in bar rooms he sits all alone erupting in his head its like the weather back and forth its like the weather when it rains it pours down

Weatherman, do you feel? Is it stormy inside of your veins?

There's a ghost in my bed, she cries in her sleep, she says I won't let her leave. I lie perfectly still as she stifles her tears. I don't want to disturb her.

'Let go, let go - please let me be. Look at the ghost you've made of me'

Dusk dropped her starry gown, I whispered out "Sweetie, are you here with me?" The mirror crashed on the dresser and she began to scream "Bloody murderer! Let me rest in peace! When I was yours, you fled the scene, now you can't wash your hands of me."

Bloody murder. You can't hear the screams

In the desert, where the cities are made of gold, there's a girl playing hopscotch with pink ribbon pigtails. And her mom calls out from an apartment balcony, "Come on, baby! Your bath is ready! It's almost time for sleep!" And I wonder who's the father...and I wonder what they call her - Sierra.

Does her mother smoke, or does she jog every morning? Does she drink when she thinks about me? Or doesn't she need to drink...does she have a man who works a nine to five? Does he come home to kiss our young Sierra, tuck her in and say goodnight? (And an extra kiss for mama...) I want that kiss, that kid, that apartment.

I'm ready to settle down now, so get that man out of my bed. I want my daughter back now, I want to kiss her, tuck her in and say, "goodnight, my baby girl, Sierra."

Sierra, Sierra, Sierra, Sierra,

I'll never know who you are, and I don't deserve to. My little girl, we would've been so... oh, never-mind. I'm ready to settle down now - yeah, I'm ready to leave that wrecking ball behind. I could be your carpenter, and you could be my twinkling north star o'er the desert sky.

I've decided tonight I'm staying alive just kicking and screaming. I'm...I'm staying alive blood boiling and steaming. There are things far too dark to comprehend. Sleep on it one more night, one more night my sad old friend.

Alive, I'm staying alive. Kicking and screaming, blood boiling and steaming. Staying alive.

Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do
Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do
Doo do Doo do Doo do Doo do

The worst is over.

~Fas