| Respite in twilight, space in the cavity
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| Wall at grandparent’s house behind the apple tree
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| Where once you sang with your siblings now
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| Watching bodies bobbing down the stream, leaving the town
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| I’m a picture of no flesh, only bones
|
| As we’re stripping off my skin to run it up the pole
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| And salute the breeze that ripples the sheath
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| Of the skeleton that’s trembling on the ground beneath
|
| Walked your entire country up the central reservation
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| The deadest stare, the slackest hair, the saddest conservation
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| We rifle through piles of bones
|
| For something to chew on, for something to own
|
| Through my teenage years at my mother’s house
|
| Every evening, six times, there comes a phone call to ask
|
| «Where's my daughter gone?» |
| She moved six years ago
|
| Now receiver’s cold, the phone calls dry, there’s no one home
|
| And that is what we feared the most
|
| Walked your entire country up the central reservation
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| The deadest stare, the slackest hair, the saddest conservation
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| Take me to the boneyard, baby
|
| We rifle through piles of bones
|
| For something to chew on, for something to own
|
| We rifle through piles of bones
|
| For something to chew on, for something to own
|
| And so we stitched our eyes and mouths closed
|
| Lest we open them
|
| Breaking the seal that our bodies have formed
|
| As a natural defence just to hold back the sorrow
|
| That friends made today will be deaths mourned tomorrow |