Joanna Newsom

Good Intentions Paving Co.

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Twenty miles left to the shore,
hello, my old country, hello.
Stars are just beginning to appear,
and I have never in my life before been here.

And it's my heart, not me, who cannot drive
at which conclusion you arrived.
Watching me sit here, bolt upright
and cry for no good reason at the Eastering sky.

And the tilt of this strange nation,
and the will to remain for the duration;
waving the flag,
feeling it drag.

Like a bump on a bump on a log, baby,
like I'm in a fistfight with the fog, baby,
step, ball-change, and a pirouette.
And I regret ? I regret! ?

how I said to you, ?Honey, just open your heart,?
when I've got trouble even opening a honey jar,
and that right there is where we are.

I've been 'fessing, double-fast,
addressing questions nobody asked.
I'll get this joy off of my chest at last,
and I will love you till the noise has long since passed.

I did not mean to shout, just drive,
just get us out, dead or alive.
The road's too long to mention, Lord, it's something to see;
laid down by the Good Intentions Paving Company.

All the way to the thing we've been playing at, darling,
I can see that you're wearing your staying-hat, darling,
for the time being, all is well,
won't you love me a spell?

This is blindness beyond all conceiving,
while behind us, the road is leaving
and leaving, and falling back
like a rope gone slack.

And I saw straightaway that the lay was steep,
but I fell for you, honey, easy as falling asleep;
and that right there is the course I keep.

And no amount of talking
is going to soften the fall,
but like after the rain,
step out of the overhang, that's all.

It had a nice ring to it,
when the old opry house rang,
so with a solemn auld lang syne,
sealed, delivered, I sang.

And there is hesitation
and it always remains,
concerning you, me,
and the rest of the gang.

And in our quiet hour,
I feel I see everything,
and am in love with the hook
upon which everyone hangs.

And I know you meant to show the extent
to which you gave a goddang,
you ranged, real hot and real cold,
but I'm sold: I am at home on that range.

And I do hate to fold,
right here, at the top of my game.
When I've been trying with my whole heart and soul,
to stay right here, in the right lane.

But it can make you feel over and old,
Lord, you know it's a shame,
when I only want for you to pull over and hold me,
till I can't remember my own name.

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Joanna Newsom en Septiembre