And so i left when i was just a boy.
I swore i'd simply do it all over again.
And now up the hill with snow-bit,
Blue-tipped fingers, blood from falling,
But i can't go back there no more
In frozen poses, venues lined with pillows,
Atlas shouldered some silly blunder or other
You ask for more than this,
But i don't know what more than this is.
Is it a motel,
With a fashion magazine,
In between towns?
I was thinking about my mother
And i wished ill upon myself.
Rachel don't come around here no more.
I hear she's living in montana
With her brother. i wish her the best,
And i hope she can forget me.
But the ghost that comes around
Is a dead-ringer for her.
I see her in my nightmares,
Discussing modern literature
With her hands around my neck
In a motel
With a fashion magazine
In between towns.
I was thinking about my mother
And i wished ill upon myself.
