All songs written by Stephin Merritt.
See them on their big, bright screen, tan and blonde and seventeen. Eating nonfood keeps them mean, but they're young forever. If they must grow up, they marry dukes and earls. I hate California girls. They ain't broke, so they put on airs, the faux folk sans derrieres. They breathe coke and they have affairs with each passing rock star. They come on like squares, then get off like squirrels. I hate California girls. Looking down their perfect noses at me and my kind, do they think we won't--well, nevermind. Laughing through their perfect teeth at everyone I know, do they think we won't get up and go? So I have planned my grand attacks. I will stand behind their backs with my brand-new battle ax. Then they will taste my wrath. They will hear me say, as the pavement whirls, "I hate California girls..."
Old fools, dancing. Old fools who believe that they can dance and sing and fall in love. After all: love? Old wines, old shoes. Old lines, who'd have thought they would ever reuse, like, "I love you." Surprise! I love you. Flowers, long drives. Old fools, new lives. Old fools, dancing. Old fools take a backseat to new romancing. Long drives, flowers. Old fools, new lovers.
Xavier says, "Ha ha ha, we have nothing in common. See you round. Ta-ta. Slink back to your abominable lover, Zsa-Zsa, before I blow your cover. Tra-la-la." Zsa-Zsa's scene: "Tacky queen, you think there's no one but you? Get your crass little ass out, and don't make me cut you. With how much you talk, you'd think that someone else was listening. Want a drink, Miss Thing?" "Sloe gin fizz," says Xavier. Zsa-Zsa orders, and drinks come. "Here it is, teddy bear." "To your health, you ratfink scum," Xavier wheezes. I forgot: before each line he sneezes quite a lot.
I walk alone around the town I used to walk with you. I watch the lonely snow come down, down Seventh Avenue. Now dreadful decorations deck the air, and mistletoe is hanging everywhere, but you no longer care. Oh, Mr. Mistletoe, hanging above, please go away. I've got no one to love. Oh, Mr. Mistletoe, wither and die, you useless weed, for no one have I. Oh, Mr. Mistletoe, how very rude. Couldn't you tell I'm not in the mood? Oh, Mr. Mistletoe, go find your tree. Didn't you know? There's no Christmas for me...
Please Stop Dancing
Please stop dancing in my head. I have cried till I'm half dead... Please stop dancing in my mind. I have cried till I'm half blind... Please stop dancing in my heart. I can't seem to make it art... Please stop dancing in my soul. I can't make it rock and roll... Please stop dancing in my sleep. I can't make it twang and beep... Please stop dancing in my eyes. I can't make it pretty lies... Please stop dancing in my blood, ill wind blowing no one good... Please stop dancing in my life. I will never be your wife...
Drive On, Driver
Drive on, driver. There's no one home. We've waited hours. She didn't come. It's such a pretty little ring, but it doesn't mean anything. Drive on. Drive on, driver, and don't you cry. I gave her everything money could buy. I always said that girl'd deserved the whole wide world. Drive on, and take me to the airport. I need to be extremely far away, so I can forget about her. I might forget about her someday. Drive on, Randy. It's all gone wrong. Have some brandy. Sing me a song. Something soft and low. Can we please just go? Drive on...
Too Drunk To Dream
Sober, life is a prison. Shitfaced, it is a blessing. Sober, nobody wants you. Shitfaced, they're all undressing. Oh, sober, it's ever darker. Shitfaced, the moon is nearer. Sober, you're old and ugly. Shitfaced, who needs a mirror? Oh, sober, you're a Cro-Magnon. Shitfaced, you're very clever. Sober you never should be. Shitfaced, now and forever. I gotta get too drunk to dream, cause dreaming only makes me blue. I gotta get too drunk to dream, because I only dream of you. I gotta get too pissed to miss you or I'll never get to sleep. I gotta drink wine not to pine for you, and God knows that ain't cheap. I know you think I'm insane, I know it's not appealing, but till I'm feeling no pain, guess what I'll be feeling... I gotta get too fried to cry or I'll be crying all night long. I gotta get too high to sigh. Oh my god, where did I go wrong? So why do I get plastered, and why am I so lonely? It's you, you heartless bastard. You're my one and only...
Till the Bitter End
Through sleet and snow and storm and hail, through every degradation and betrayal, past rhyme and reason and beyond the pale, darling, I will love you till the bitter end... and all the bitter moments till then. Through time and tomb and Tim and Tom, through pro and con and quid pro quo and qualm, through tidal wave and asteroid and bomb, darling, I will love you till the bitter end... and all the bitter moments till then. And when your charms begin to fade, and when you feel old and afraid, I'll scratch beneath your shoulder blade and whisper: "My love is deeper than I show. Remember what I said: 'Through sleet and snow...' So even though I know you have to go, darling, I will love you till the bitter end... and all the bitter moments till then."
I'll Dream Alone
Long and lonely nights I've waited for you to put things to rights, leaving you to do your thing without disturbance from me. Somehow I doubt you'll ever be back. I'll keep your things. If you ever need them, the phone still rings. And now that you're free of me at last, your time is your own. Go have a blast, and I'll dream alone without you. I'll dream alone if I must, because I guess our little castle in the sky just turned to dust. So I'll dream alone: that's showbiz. I'll dream alone from here in, and I'll be trying not to dream of what once was and might have been if only I'd known. I'll dream alone. Dreams, we had a few, but what kind of dream beats you black and blue? I wanted to scream "Don't go away!" but nothing came out. All I could say is...
The Nun's Litany
I want to be a playboy's bunny. I'd do whatever they asked me to. I'd meet people with lots of money, and they would love me like I loved you. I want to be a topless waitress. I want my mother to shed one tear. I'd throw away this old sedate dress, slip into something a tad more sheer. I want to be an artist's model, an odalisque, au naturel. I should be good at spin-the-bottle while I've still got something left to sell. I want to be a cobra dancer, with Little Willy between my thighs. I may not find a cure for cancer, but I'll meet plenty of single guys. I want to be a brothel worker. I've always been treated like one. If I could be a back-street lurker, I'd make more money and have more fun. I want to be a dominatrix, which isn't like me, but I can dream--learn S, and M, and all those gay tricks, and men will pay me to make them scream. I want to be a porno starlet. (For that I'll wait till Mama's dead.) I'll see my name in lights of scarlet and get to spend every day in bed. I want to be a tattooed lady, dedicated -- as I am -- to art. Characters bold, complex, and shady will write my memoirs across my heart.
Two roosters I slew, and with all of my might I prayed, hard, for you in Haiti at night. Your skin has turned blue, and your hair has turned white. Must be the voodoo of this Haitian moonlight. We can't take day trips, but oh! those moonlight strolls, dressed up in silk slips, high heels, and mink stoles. You swivel your hips as I work the controls. No blood ever drips when I widen your holes, zombie boy... You seem to have died of some form of the pox. They left you inside your tiny black box. I heard when you cried, and I answered your knocks. Let's make you a bride with another two cocks. You look pretty pure for so long in the ground. You smell like a sewer, but you don't make a sound. I feed you ordure to keep Poopsie spellbound. I like to be sure you'll be sticking around, zombie boy...
Well, courtesans shed no tears when you leave them high and dry. They just go on to the next guy, cause courtesans only want compensation for their time: a few kind words (they need not rhyme), a sable coat, maybe a hat. Oh, I wish I could be like that. But courtesans are not like me. They don't take their love very hard. Their hearts are free. How avant-garde. If no one loves them when they're old, they'll sit and count their chains of gold. You say you'll love them till you die, and they don't care if it's a lie, cause courtesans don't believe in anybody but themselves and Santa Claus and his twelve elves.
Copyright (c) Jan 2008 by The Distant Plastic Treehouse