Lyrics:Okkervil River/Black Sheep Boy
From Geartome
Contents |
Black Sheep Boy
Here I am back home again --- I'm here to rest. All they ask is where I've been, knowing I've been west. I'm the family's unowned boy; golden curls of envied hair. Pretty girls with faces fair see the shine in the Black Sheep Boy. If you love me, let me live in peace. Please understand that the black sheep can wear the golden fleece and hold a winning hand. I'm the family's unowned boy; golden curls of envied hair. Pretty girls with faces fair see the shine in the Black Sheep Boy.
For Real
Some nights I thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries. And then the flash of steel from real guns, in real life, really fills my mind. And I really miss what really did exist when I held your throat so tight. And I miss the bus as it swerved from us, almost came crashing to its side. Sometimes the blood from real cuts feels real nice when it's really mine. And if you want it to be real, come over for one night, and we can really, really climb. And those blue bridge lights might really burn most bright as we watch that dark lake rise. And if you really want to see what really matters most to me, just take a real short drive. It's just a drive into the dark stretch, long stretch of night... will really stretch this shaking mind. And this room, unlit, unheated... and the ceiling striped... and the dark black blinds. I want to know this time if you're really finally mine. I need to know that you're not lying, so I want to see you tried. And I don't want to hear you say it shouldn't really be this way 'cause I like this way just fine, 'cause there's nothing quite like the blinding light that curtains cast aside, and no attempt is made to explain away the things that really, really, really, really, really are behind... You can't hide.
In A Radio Song
Black sheep boy, blue-eyed charmer; head hanging with horns from your father. Oh, in a cold little mirror you were grown. By a black little wind you were blown -- alone, alone, alone. Cold smile on your lips, you shake and shiver. Some animal sips where the river flows... from a black little crack in a stone, to a crackle in a radio song -- sing along, sing along, sing along. Warm light when your eyes fill with laughter. Some animal lies in the pasture -- holes in its throat where the blood was drawn, in its mouth where the tongue was torn by your claws, your claws, your claws. I rose from a dream; we were running from every being that was hunting, but we let them get ahead of us. We let them lie in wait for us. We're fucked, we're fucked, we're fucked. I rose from a dream; I had just destroyed everything with one crushing blow, and I woke up and watched it go, and I woke up and wagged my tongue... So long, so long, so long.
Black
I'm coming into your town -- Night is falling to the ground, but I can still see where you loved yourself, before he tore it all down, April 12th, with nobody else around; you were outside the house. Where's your mother? When he put you in the car, when he took you down the road. And I can still see where it was open, the door he slammed closed. It was open, the door he slammed closed. It was open, long ago. But don't lose me now, don't lose me now, though I know that I'm not useful anyhow. Just let me stick around while I tell you, like before, you should say his name the way that he said yours, but you don't want to say his name anymore. Oh, Cynda Moore... Baby daughter on the road, you're wrapped up warm in Daddy's coat. And I can still see the cigarette's heat. I can't believe all that you're telling me, what is cutting like the smoke through your teeth as you're telling me, "forget it." But if I could tear his throat, and spill his blood between my jaws, and erase his name out for good, don't you know that I would? Don't you realize that I wouldn't pause, that I would cut him down with my claws, if I could have somehow never let that happen? Or I'd call, some black midnight; fuck up his new life where they don't know what he did, tell his brand-new wife and his second kid. Though I tell you, like before, that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours, but you want no part of his life anymore. Oh, Cynda Moore... Don't lose me now. Let me help you out, though I know that I can't help anyhow. When I watch you, I'm proud. When I tell you twice before that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours, you want no part of his life anymore. Oh, Cynda Moore...And it'll never be the way it was before, but I wish that you would let me through that door. Let me through that door.
Get Big
Once we get to the end of this song, then it will begin again. So you said, in our bed -- I was watching light slip through the blinds to find your skin. Take your medicine and I won't ask where you've been. Live your lost weekend; I know you've wanted it -- to get big, little kid. And I can't say why each day doesn't quite fit the space we saved for it, but if that space now demands that you throw up both your hands, that you call it quits... And take your midnight trip; I know you've dreamed of it. And walk your sunset strip, because I think you've needed it; to get big, little kid. But just remember that our love only got this good because of some younger days that'd you like to outstrip. So drink your cup down to the dregs; we'll leave that club on shaking legs with another guy, but just remember, I'm not him. Take your medicine and I won't ask where you've been. Live your lost weekend, because I know you've wanted it; to get big, little kid. And once we get to the end of this song, then another will begin.
A King And A Queen
If you want to see and be seen, then be seen. Your dress is dark red and your opening eyes are bright green. Make a scene, but don't lie on the bed, laid out like you're dead, because honey, you're murdering me. Be a little sheep learning who'll shear and who'll feed. The hands come and they leave. Be hands holding a knife. Be a being on two feet, with his heart trembling, butchering for a king he believes in though he's never seen. Be the princess in that stone tower, crying for that handsome butcher's plight. (And, as some princess might, she still calls him a knight.) But the best thing for you would be queen, so be queen. You're all that I need. Though I know that it never can be, I'd be pleased to post your decrees, to fall at your knees, to name all your streets and to sit down and weep when you're carried back through them and set down to sleep, and to lie by your side for sublime centuries until we crumble to dust when we're crushed by a single sunbeam.
A Stone
Hot breath, rough skin, warm laughs and smiling, the loveliest words whispered and meant -- you like all these things. But, though you like all these things, you love a stone. You love a stone, because it's smooth and it's cold. And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own. You love white veins, you love hard grey, the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape, the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone -- you love a stone. And I'm found too fast, called too fond of flames, and then I'm phoning my friends, and then I'm shouldering the blame, while you're picking pebbles out of the drain, miles ago. You're out singing songs, and I'm down shouting names at the flickerless screen, going fucking insane. Am I losing my cool, overstating my case? Well, baby, what can I say? You know I never claimed that I was a stone. And you love a stone. You love white veins, you love hard grey, the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape, the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone -- you love a stone. You love a stone, because it's dark and it's old, and if it could start being alive, you'd stop living alone. And I think I believe that if stones could dream, they'd dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece, and turned into a castle for some towering queen they're unable to know. And when that queen's daughter came of age, I think she'd be lovely and stubborn and brave, and suitors would journey from kingdoms away just to make themselves known. And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day, when she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose, one day, years ago.
The Latest Toughs
All the latest toughs -- you've got to shrug them off or shut them off. With ten-thousand-time-told truths, you've still got to ask for proof. Ask for proof, because if you're dying to be led, they'll lead you up the hill in chains to their popular refrains, and then your slaughter's been arranged, my little lamb, and it's much too late to talk the knife out of their hands. Well, I woke up on a foggy morning. (Hiding from the sun, he was hiding from the sun.) But it came out and it shot its rays down. (Burning everyone, it was burning everyone.) But they were dying, anyway, to turn to ash, to feel their feelings flash and finally fade away, in a fabulous and fiery display. Look, though, I don't know what notes you want to hear played, I can't think what lines you'd like me to sing or say, and I'm not sure what subjects you want mentioned. So pause and add your own intentions. Let's pause and add our own. If everyone hates him so much, why don't they kill the president? All the latest toughs -- well, we have seen that stuff, and we have seen enough blood in dying coughs, which means that we have lost. We have lost, and if you're crying to be tossed, they'll toss you down the oubliette with all the old things that you let yourself forget because you'd like to love a star who'd throw you down below the ground he thinks you are.
Song Of Our So-Called Friend
Remember when our so-called friend would not call out to you while tumbling loosely out a hole punched through your home? It's pretty clear, though you could hear, you truly finally knew -- in time, he'd tell his tale the way he'd like it told. Now he isn't on the phone, and his story might as well be so. Well, loving is as loving does, and I'd say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. Your face's falling tears -- to me, they're lovely and they're dear, though you don't love me, and it's clear that I will never see you in my arms. There's no room in your heart for even this finely-sharpened dart; although I had started to think there might be hope, it isn't so. So wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune. The water cools, the leaves they fall, the sun it bends, the summer ends; our so-called friend doesn't need you. So proceed out the door and down the street. December's lying near, but in the oven's heat, this house is now a home. Sixty days of trips and stays you took to tell me, dear, that you cannot love me because you secretly still love a stone. Although I put my lips to your face, trying to push his kiss out of its place; although my heart started to race, now it has slowed -- I'll let it go.
So Come Back, I Am Waiting
A black sheep boy revolves over canyons and waterfalls. A black sheep boy dissolves in syringe or in a shower stall. He says, 'there's plenty of time to make you mine tonight, there's plenty of time to make you mine.' He says, 'there's plenty of ways to know you're not dying, all right. Hell, there's plenty of light still left in your eyes.' A black sheep boy grows horns, breathing smoke through his microphone. The airwaves stretch and they groan, bleeding, birthing his black diapason. He says, 'there's plenty of things to wear when you come to me, every color of sleeve to be rolled. There are millions of rolling eyes that still cling to me. Every language of king is concerned.' So why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song that some liar laughed as he composed, some liar I loved to control? A black sheep boy dissolves in hot cream, in sweet moans, in each dead bed and empty home, in each seething bacterium. Killing softly and serial, he lifts his head, handsome, horned, magisterial. He's the smell of the moonlight wisteria. He's the thrill of the abecedarian. (See the muddy hoofprints where he carried you?) And there's plenty of ways to claim his crimes tonight, and there's plenty of things to do on his dime. And there's plenty of ways to wear his hide tonight. You've got yours and I've got mine. So why did you flee? Don't you know you can't leave his control, only call all his wild works your own? So come back and we'll take them all on. So come back to your life on the lam. So come back to your old black sheep man. He says, 'I am waiting on hoof and on hand. I am waiting, all hated and damned. I am waiting; I snort and I stamp. I am waiting -- you know that I am -- calmly waiting to make you my lamb.
A Glow
Come into the den, come into the den -- you've got a glow, you've got a glow. Climb into my arms with blood on your clothes -- you've got a glow, you've got a glow. And you're no one's but mine, and nobody knows the lane where he's lying -- no heat in his bones. No heart that was mine, no hand that i'd hold -- and you've got a glow, you've got a glow. And there's no escaping the thing that is making its home in your radio. You're light and alive. You're lithe and you're strong, and you've wanted to do that, my love, for so long. My live and dead men, come into the den -- you've got a glow, you've got a glow. No heart that was mine, no hand that i'd hold -- and you've got a glow, you've got a glow.
