All songs written by Stephin Merritt.
It's the sound of lonely days falling down like rain on this place. Please don't count the lonely days. Let this town fade to gray. Endless rows of houses fuse, and there's never any news, because there's nowhere to go but crazy, so we go. We just hang around in malls, up until the army calls, because there's nowhere to go but crazy, as you know. Nothing good is on TV. No one falls in love with me, and there's nobody to fall in love with, so I don't. Don't forget to stop and smell the glue. No one falls in love with you, and there's nobody to fall in love with, just the phone.
She-Devils of the Deep
Large, and full of ill-intent, circling, gurgling. Cross-eyed and incontinent, lurking, irking. Eyes are looking amorous, fumbling, mumbling. Razors and humorless. She-devils of the deep. Gracelessly they prowl the night seeking young meat. Like demented stalagmites, streamed with seaweed. Stalking all the surfer boys, tearing, pairing. Cackling in chythonian joy, mating, mutilating. She-devils of the deep. Full shadows creep when we're asleep. She-demons from the sea. Dismember you and eat me. Look in their amphibious eyes, you'll be sorry. Everybody hypnotized, winds up splattered everywhere. In the nauseating voice, sighing, lying. Seek, look, all the surferboys, dying, dying.
You've been tearing out your hair, and I've been drinking, listening to music in the dark. And I've been keeping to myself and you've been slinking all around the trailer park. There's no use even trying, because it's hopeless. All of our dreams are dying of overdoses. All of our plans are lying in ten-car road wrecks. There's just no point in crying. You know it's hopeless. You look at strangers like a kid in a candy store. I've been leaving on every train. And you don't keep a diary anymore. And I come home feeling no pain. Don't let me rain on your parade. Don't get your hair gray. It's just another wasted year. Nothing you can't forget in hours at the raceway. Nothing that can't be drown in beer.
Death Opened a Boutique
On Friday the 13th, death opened a boutique on the Champs Elysees, selling fear and dismay. Open seven days a week, it was de rieugur and chic. For the wicked and the weak, death opened a boutique. People came from far and near to buy poison and tears. The decor was delectable. The service impeccable. It was expensive, what isn't? It sold black plague and socialism. There was no reason to exist if you weren't on the mailing list.
You Pretend to Be the Moon
You pretend to be the moon, infinitely far away, and you're always leaving soon, but what you want, you'll never say. You pretend to be the moon, looking down upon us all, always taking a dim view, feeling cold and blue and small. You've seen your friends and lovers die, the weepie nds, but you don't cry. Remember when we'd wave goodbye? At least I tried. You pretend to be the moon, with another secret face, always only passing through because you come from outer space. You pretend to be the moon, old and fat and made of stone, but I've seen you in the nude when you thought you were alone.
I'm the new Greek statue you can take home and enjoy. I'm the dream of every queen, the world's most gorgeous boy. I'm the billion dollar baby with a million dollar smile. I'm the toast of every coast, and I can't sing--oh, honey. Blond Adonis on the endless Autobahn. Blond Adonis on the cover of a magazine. Blond Adonis on the golden streets of Cannes. Blond Adonis onthe silver screen. I'm the new sex object, and I am God's gift to you. I'm the blond with tousled frond and eyes so baby blue. I can't sing, but I can do some things that leave you breathless. Take me home and leave the light off, you'll see why I'm famous. I'm the last of the master race, the grand Teutonic plague. My computer-generated face is all the rage. I'm continuously updated, I never age. I'm only an actor, and the whole world is a stage.
But You're So Beautiful
You know why the lemmings fly from high terrain. You know why most flowers don't bloom. You know why sad children stay out inthe rain, sitting in your lonely room. But you're so beautiful you make me want to cry, and you're so sad and hopeless waiting 'round to die. You may be cruel and unkind in every way, thinking up ways to hurt me all night and day. But you're so beautiful. One day you burned out all your dreams with one lit match and gasoline. How could you been so old and lonely at 17? One day your lost your only friend to Jesus Christ and His henchmen. Where did you learn to have so many accidents? You only go out when it rains. You're impossible to entertain. You collect songs about crime. I'm gonna kidnap you in the summertime.
A You You Never Knew
I believe you when you say you're alone in every way. The sun comes up and you go down into your hole. I don't believe you have a soul. A you you never knew lives in a better place. A you you never knew, one of a prettier face. I believe you when you cry even though you hide your eyes. I believe that you can't feel your life at all, like the ghost of a doll.
I loll on the porch swing, tall mint julep in hand, listening to The Beach Boys, why don't they understand? This is not what I call summer, summer it's infinitely less than. We get one real summer, only one in our time, full of wine and wonder--you were mine. We get one real summer, ridiculous and sublime, before we go under--you were mine. I may drive my woody down to sandcastle beach with my brave new boyfriend, but love is out of reach. Who lives in these crumbling castles? Summer's promise honored in the breach. So lost without you, haven't a clue what to do... Octagons fall from the sun as we run through the grass. Let weathermen blether, this forecast is o'ercast. And The Beach Boys, hell, they might as well play "WinterWonderland." Summer, my ass.
Memories of Love
Memories of love creep in, quiet as a mouse, when you're finally sleeping and they fill the house. They begin their quaint folk dance. The bed starts to shake. Some get in your pajama pants,and you jolt awake. Some are like a sip of champagne, some are harder stuff; some are advertizing campaigns, memories of love. Every secret desire, every teenage crush, every little cragmire, come to make you blush. Every pecca-dillo, every sordid scene, what you said to your pillow, what you dare to dream. Some arevicious lies and libel, some are true enough; some are modern, some are tribal, memories of love. Every tearless farewell when a young man died in the empty stairwell where last she cried. You say, "That's not funny. Just go away." Soon you're down onone knee begging them to stay. Some are brilliant, some are awful, some are summer fluff; some are heavy Russian novels, memories of love. Some are trips through fields of daisies, some are pretty rough; some of them will drive you crazy, memories of love.
You Steal the Scene
Standing by the car in a silver thing, staring into space like an astronaut, in a western town as the evening falls, in the late summer in the far future. You steal the scene... Standing on the set, curling cigarettes, in a body suit, getting in the mood for an action scene in the madman's dream. When the camera's roll, you do your own stunts. Standing on a chair, noose around your neck, in a body suit catching everything. Kick the chair away as the cameras rock. Movies of your life flash before your eyes. Now you're underground added to the gate, tattered from the suit, every twitch and sigh lie before your art in the public eye with your trademark smile changing all the time.
Copyright (c) Sep 1999 by The Distant Plastic Treehouse