Another filthy Austin band cashing in our drink tokens and falling in love all too quickly. Garage rock//alternative//indie folk • Hippie Crippler • "Borne on an Elliott Smith cusp, with a moon rising in Cat Stevens/Tea for the Tillerman winsome pop." —Laurie Gallardo, KUTX Austin Music Minute • live • original • lyrics • sxsw • videos • shows • tour • album • EP • podcasts • twitter • instagram

Filtering by Tag: lyrics

Old Weed

 Don't care to hear the latest news—
 You can keep the change but can you sense this mood
    coming through?
It's been real nice looking past this dead-faced glare for a wide-eyed gut reaction;
Moments like these can't be denied
  Yet still you'll try.

You found yourself in Prague yet still I'm not so sure
    that you've found me.
I see you're at the window so I go and lock the door— 
 Does that constitute a dick move?
 Through this facebook post won't you take your toll?
Bankrupt my Social Capital.

Humbling statement followed by a lowbrow reprisal
      The group approval to which you're entitled.

Why can't we stay good friends online?
 ...Or was that a slight

Perhaps I've jumped the shark in trying to be kind

Just when I thought we'd end up fine

Your cousin's weed won't get me high.

Can I Borrow a Lighter?

What do you keep behind closed doors? 
Who will I find beneath your floorboards?

Collecting blood to paint the town— my, you're a hell of a gal

Forget the average, let's talk mean
Smack me around a bit my darling orphaned edge-queen
That's if your latest trick allows.... I wish.

It's just another reminder of this ||
I left a note to remind her of this
Odd intervallic reminders of

How I would love to be, if only for a while
I would love to be like Aldous Huxley's child
I would love to be imagined or asleep
Might add up to a ghost
Still I count on this black sheep

  ⇀ Link broken? Think of something funny we could use? Let us know!

Loose Cigarette

I'd absolutely love to be the Unabomber if that meant that I would have healthcare
Catch up on rent for the apartment, all 300 squares

The kitchen houses the commode
It leaves me with a very funny feeling

Like I should have looked up all along to see
I'm getting fucked on vaulted ceilings.
  And it's a cold night
  But if you don't mind to sit down with me
I know it sounds preposterous but I could see us sharing twin linen sheets.

After your man has lent a cigarette to the Terrible Machine who comes to claim you//We'll throw our gears down on the table as we dry hump and laugh.

We almost got back to my place but what
 stopped us wasn't who we were deceiving
It's just my neighbor standing freely based and screaming at his newly broken/broke-in TV—
That's not what parking lots are for, man.

  Well anyway if you'd still like to make an ampersand with me
   I can't stand to see the face of some *half-ass who's twice the man that I'll ever be
  You claim to hate this routine
  We can't keep our Terror unseen
  Fell for this broken Machine
  Who barely has a third of a cheek*

And it's a cold night
I understand if you can't spend even a little more time with me
I'll keep my wallet empty//like a frame that displays nobodies teeth
As though a fire came and chewed out the memories
And ate up all of our 300 sq. ft.

Oh Dear Driver

Awake too long and feeling kinda sick,
I throw myself into these temperamental fits
I assure you that it's no trance I'm under.

I'm waiting on a car with someone that's inside
I never met before, entrust them with my life
I hope I don't get murdered
Yet I wonder
How much does one tip to get skinned?

Counting out the ways
I end up sewn into upholstery— exquisitely displayed.
By these thoughts I am consumed
Self-avoidance at its finest, always coming off removed.

I pass the time between each borrowed cigarette
I light to connect with my disconnected friends
I hope that something awful blows my cover.
I've got these ill-defined points of interest on my mind
And I know it's just my integral blunder.

I'm just waiting for my ride.

Crawling in my skin
Of which I thankfully still have, 
But this night's not yet met its end.
I pray I am consumed.
Conflicting sense of self-importance, maybe I'm avoiding

The moment's getting near, I'm hoping that I'm right
With FOX news, Mohandas Gandhi, & Lord Jesus Christ.
Are you sure it's not a trance that I'm under?

And I don't fear no (tin foil) apocalyptic propositions from Big Brother

Meanwhile I beg,

"Oh Dear Driver, take your tip
   Count your blessings— let me live."

Our conversation's off the table but it's coming back to haunt me in spades.
I never knew a thought was able to first crystallize then shatter under its own weight.
I'd contemplate what's on the table, but I know you're trying to rope me in.
A seatbelt-click of paranoia incase we don't escape the lane we're in unscathed.