LISTEN TO OUR HEARTS DARLIN’
Duckin’ Streetlight Notes
Music tastes of mud. Sweaters falling off my walls, tasting those who can't be touched or faced. It’s a moonlit craze, lighting up the lightning, washing away all that might be left. If I were to graze the tips of my feet, black, gold, rocks, and two tones would kiss the backs of mine. We tighten up, loosely lifting knees; shaking, skating, our thighs are holding. It's the humid heat, sleek and slim. Hearty, I see the hearts beading from the heights. Don't sleep, but sleeping on the streets is common amongst you and I. The baby backs, ribs cracked, and my peppers black; only the salt will make us wince, if that's what glistens. Dat dog, two little logs, placed between the food I batch. One blue moon's got noise coming from that trumpet of you and mines. If we listen close, words of ours could be heard from my mother's maid. If we listen close, the words are coming from you and I.
Doo da body's blues, stones turned, and stones we've curved. A miracle can't be made; it's home where we lie. Lay our roots, watch the trees; they aren’t you and mine. Call me when we've made it home. Until then, drill these holes of ours, plant the seeds that might turn or stay awhile.
Music tastes of mud. Sweaters falling off my walls, tasting those who can't be touched or faced. It’s a moonlit craze, lighting up the lightning, washing away all that might be left. If I were to graze the tips of my feet, black, gold, rocks, and two tones would kiss the backs of mine. We tighten up, loosely lifting knees; shaking, skating, our thighs are holding. It's the humid heat, sleek and slim. Hearty, I see the hearts beading from the heights. Don't sleep, but sleeping on the streets is common amongst you and I. The baby backs, ribs cracked, and my peppers black; only the salt will make us wince, if that's what glistens. Dat dog, two little logs, placed between the food I batch. One blue moon's got noise coming from that trumpet of you and mines. If we listen close, words of ours could be heard from my mother's maid. If we listen close, the words are coming from you and I.
Doo da body's blues, stones turned, and stones we've curved. A miracle can't be made; it's home where we lie. Lay our roots, watch the trees; they aren’t you and mine. Call me when we've made it home. Until then, drill these holes of ours, plant the seeds that might turn or stay awhile.