_don't bother trying to explain, angel

ist pretty nice to indulge in a little lyric fest from death cab and the postal service. oohhh how lovely oohhh!

brand new colony.

I'll be the grapes fermented, bottled and
served with the table set in my finest suit
like a perfect gentleman.
I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the
ancient brick where you will sit and
contemplate your day.
I'll be the waterwings that save you if you
start drowning in an open tab when your
judgement's on the brink.
I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite
albums back as your lying there drifting off
to sleep.
I'll be the platform shoes and undo what
heredity's done to you: you won't have to
strain to look into my eyes.
I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped
straight to the throat with the collar up so
you won't catch cold.

I want to take you far away from the cynics in this
town and kiss you on the mouth.
we'll cut our bodies free from the tethers of
this scene, start a brand new colony
where everything will change, we'll give
ourselves new names, identities erased.
the sun will heat the grounds under our bare
feet in this brand new colony.
everything will change...

------------------------------------------------
sleeping in

Last week I had the strangest dream
where everything was exactly how it seemed
where there was never any mysteryof who shot John F. Kennedy.
It was just a man with something to prove,
slightly bored and severely confused.
He steadied his rifle with his target in the center
and became famous on that day in November.

Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in

Again last night I had that strange dream
where everything was exactly how it seemed
concerns about the world getting warmer
people thought that they were just being rewarded for treating others as they'd like to be treated
for obeying stop signs and curing diseases
for mailing letters with the address of the sender.
Now we can swim any day in November.

------------------------------------------------------
no joy in mudville.

Last night I dreamt that I was you.
I was dressed in all black with dark glasses and attitude.
Such a pose I could simply not hold through days in the northern town that I had once called a home.
Your studies of fringe New York streets: I was reading the pavement in every word you would speak.
To a brownstone up three flights of stairs and it's on...
Buying drinks for the poets upstate, this southern corrupting towed you down the interstate,
and they all said that you were the king of a gloomy disruption that surfaced when you would speak.

This town simply cannot compete so I'm packing my Bullets and Silvertones and heading east
to a brownstone up three flights of stairs and it's on...
If I could have (had) my way this year would bridge '66 (again?)

Trust fund hipsters were casing the room chock full of amphetamines.
The overturned kick drum boom set the pace with incomparable cool.
And if the tempo was lousy it was lost on all but you...