There are ghosts in these woods. Too many to count.
And I’ve always been down. But I’ll never be out.
So send me off with Elliott Smith and lonesome Appalachian guitar.
Turn off those high-beams, let’s get in my car.
Man, it’s hot in these woods,
but that girl is laughing by the pool
She’s in that one-piece, feeling old-fashioned
She’s the warmth in the midst of the cool
But we never come home better, and home is always so broken
It’s Sunday night and the beer store’s closed, but my fridge is always open
And there’s nothing to feel in this town besides a special kind of lonely
So don’t mind the heat, just hand me a beer and hold me.
This is the story of my keystone tattoo
This is the story of every story except you
This is the end, this is how I bled
This is how I danced with you while I danced with the dead
Let’s smoke a cigarette, knowing it’ll kill us
There’s an aching in there somewhere, waiting to fulfill us
And I’ll walk the streets home until four in the morning
And then I’ll grow up, and then this will be boring
There’s a beginning and an end
They’re both the same, they both want to mend
And it settles in on the disproportionate and content
I’m just a fucked up boy from the northern part of the North End