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lyrics

Every word I untie a crossword shoelace,
replacement therapy, still my tongue in knots…

Can’t think of anything to say, I don’t want to speak…
I just want to feel the stars blush when the sky has burned

away… These years will belong to the moon.
Those nice-guy words whose busted pipe leaks in my ear…

Burning bush that blinks when it lies,
sit at the intersection, silent, legs crossed,
eyes closed like a smoking monk…

Away, these years will belong to the moon.
Those night-sky words, whose busted pipe leaks in my ear…

It’s fitting that fossil fuels deplete along with our atmosphere.
Then, we’ll just have to think of a place to bury all the dead cars…

credits

from Predicting Memories, released January 30, 2003

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Eric Beeny Buffalo, New York

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