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lyrics

He slings a sign post
over his shoulder
and says, "Let the
townsfolk find
their own damned way."
And I said,
"What about the tourists,
are they left blind
leading blind?"
His response
I'll carry with me all my days.
"All we ever do is fight,
some folks will wander left,
while all the rest
turn right.
Might as well spend your time
here lost.
At least that's something
you can
trust."
So, we laid out on the hood
wishing for a smoke
and we wondered
what the stars looked like
out there in Mexico,
and we talked some about
politics
and living on the road.
Straight out of some Kerouac
and tacked upon some door.
With an old box of strings
that we found in a dumpster
we sang folk songs
of outlaws
& gunshots
& lovers
& raised all our questions
'til everything I knew was dead.
He said, "roll me,
oh roll me 'til I say it's over.
I found myself this morning
sickened & sober
& cramped up in this soapbox
that i carved myself
before I found my head."
So we started back for home
& left our dreams someplace
behind.
'Cause I'm working now 'til Sunday
on the assembly line.
We all feel something filthy
when we look back on our lives,
that's why our stories remain stories
and we're all compelled to lie.
I'm going to pound this drum
until it's empty.
'Cause we'll all feel good when this keg
is dry.
We'll put our hang-ups to a rhythm
and smoke this 'til it's kicked
for there's nothing short of tragedy
that's going to make this feeling stick.
(Chorus)
And tonight,
we drink to Dover
'til we can't bring ourselves
to leave it
because this town has seen
better days.

credits

from Get Lost With​.​.​., released August 20, 2012
Andhi O'Neill - guitar, vocals, banjo (bowed & plucked), bass, trombone, keys, drums, field recordings
Ahmed Eldawaity - guitar

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Origami Sun New York

Andhi O'Neill & friends make music.

CONTACT: origamisun@gmail.com

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