Letra de Beet Red
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All my beloved eloquence is washing away, in a moment to be gone, evaporating. A big old mouth, for sure, but nothing to say â speaking, yes, but not communicating. When did I trade my stride for this convalescent soliloquy? Did I bury it, or did I bottle it up and toss it into the sea that laps behind me?
You'd recognize my funny face from miles away. I know I couldn't fool you if I tried. But pecked apart and left for dead by birds of prey, I'd leave interpretation open so wide.
All my beloved indifference is washing away. (It was never really here if you'd have noticed.) If I give you a map and tell you, "Point out the Bay," you'll point to California or to the Dakotas, 'cause you just have so much more fun when you're clouding the issue with reverie and confusing it. But oh, I'm losing it â will you remember me from Mary, Katrin or Brie?
We've been digging through the trash behind the Masters' home and they've thrown away some perfectly good rice. Huddling in the darkness, glimpsing faint moonlight on chrome â just to be alone with you is something nice. I shiver like a crow would warm her icy wing as we leave those cans beside the Masters' shed. You observe aloud, "The Masters don't know squat about recycling." I think of all the funny bits to that which could be wed â and I go beet red when it hits me suddenly that I've been so flat with you.
But when I wake up in the morning to eight hours of sunlight on another lonely day, i'll realize that once again infatuation has turned gray.
Yeah, you'd recognize my pretty face from miles away. I know I couldn't fool you if I tried, even if my hair was done up for some Sallie Mae or in a million barrettes it were tied. I could have died when it hit me suddenly that I'd been so flat with you. But with the morning's clarity I've realized that if you'd wanted, you could've voiced it, too, what we maybe both were thinking.
You'd recognize my funny face from miles away. I know I couldn't fool you if I tried. But pecked apart and left for dead by birds of prey, I'd leave interpretation open so wide.
All my beloved indifference is washing away. (It was never really here if you'd have noticed.) If I give you a map and tell you, "Point out the Bay," you'll point to California or to the Dakotas, 'cause you just have so much more fun when you're clouding the issue with reverie and confusing it. But oh, I'm losing it â will you remember me from Mary, Katrin or Brie?
We've been digging through the trash behind the Masters' home and they've thrown away some perfectly good rice. Huddling in the darkness, glimpsing faint moonlight on chrome â just to be alone with you is something nice. I shiver like a crow would warm her icy wing as we leave those cans beside the Masters' shed. You observe aloud, "The Masters don't know squat about recycling." I think of all the funny bits to that which could be wed â and I go beet red when it hits me suddenly that I've been so flat with you.
But when I wake up in the morning to eight hours of sunlight on another lonely day, i'll realize that once again infatuation has turned gray.
Yeah, you'd recognize my pretty face from miles away. I know I couldn't fool you if I tried, even if my hair was done up for some Sallie Mae or in a million barrettes it were tied. I could have died when it hit me suddenly that I'd been so flat with you. But with the morning's clarity I've realized that if you'd wanted, you could've voiced it, too, what we maybe both were thinking.
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