Lirik Lagu Inflammatory Writ - Joanna Newsom
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Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'
Our music deservingDevotion unswervingCried; 'do i deserve her?'With unflagging fervorWell, no we do not, if we cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me trueAmbition came and reared its head and went - far from you
Even mollusks have weddingsThough solemn and leadenBut you dirge for the deadAnd take no jam on your breadJust a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at onceIt came to meAnd i wrote in hunch 'til four-thirtyBut that vestal lightIt burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on itOm one bedraggled ghost of a sonnetWhile outside the wild boars rootWithout bending a bough underfootOh, it breaks my heart - i don't know how they do it
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ?Well i wrote it and i was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the masterDerailed that disasterSaid; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'While across the great plainsKeening lovely & awfulUlulate the last great american novelsAn unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlitBut at least they didn't run, to their undying credit
Our music deservingDevotion unswervingCried; 'do i deserve her?'With unflagging fervorWell, no we do not, if we cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me trueAmbition came and reared its head and went - far from you
Even mollusks have weddingsThough solemn and leadenBut you dirge for the deadAnd take no jam on your breadJust a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at onceIt came to meAnd i wrote in hunch 'til four-thirtyBut that vestal lightIt burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on itOm one bedraggled ghost of a sonnetWhile outside the wild boars rootWithout bending a bough underfootOh, it breaks my heart - i don't know how they do it
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ?Well i wrote it and i was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the masterDerailed that disasterSaid; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'While across the great plainsKeening lovely & awfulUlulate the last great american novelsAn unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlitBut at least they didn't run, to their undying credit
