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The Decemberists
The Decemberists


Background information
Origin Portland, Oregon, United States
Genre(s) Indie Rock
Folk-Rock
Art Rock
Baroque Pop
Progressive Rock
Years active 2000—present
Label(s) Capitol Records
Kill Rock Stars
Website Website
Members
Colin Meloy
Chris Funk
Jenny Conlee
Nate Query
John Moen
Former members
Jesse Emerson
Ezra Holbrook
Rachel Blumberg
David Langenes
Petra Haden



Music World  →  Lyrics  →  T  →  The Decemberists  →  Albums  →  5 Songs

The Decemberists Album


5 Songs (2001)
2001
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6.
. . .



Sweet Annabelle,
As seen reclining on an ocean swell
As the waves do lather up to lay her down 'til she's fast and sleeping.
Oh well, I guess I'm something of a ne'er-do-well- who fell asleep at the
pealing of the steeple bell.
I'm on track and keeping.

But oh, if I could only get you oceanside,
to lay your muscles wide,
it'd be heavenly.
&oh, if I could only coax you overboard,
to leave these lulling shores,
to get you oceanside.
Oceanside. Oceanside. oh.

At rising tide, you're looking fresher than a July bride.
We're picking up what our mothers always stigmatized.
The field is right for reaping.
Oh well, I guess I'm something of a ne'er do well,
even though that's something I could never do well.
I'm on track and keeping.

But oh, if I could only get you oceanside,
to lay your muscles wide,
it'd be heavenly.
Oh, if I could only coax you
overboard,
to leave these lulling shores,
to get you oceanside.

. . .



By the bumper cars
In the pretty twining light
I may have gone too far
I may have gone too much, too long
I'm a dull and witless boy

At the after bars
Think I was sullied by a dream
In the killing jar
You and me at war, at arms
All falling in embrace

Tell me why you lied
And what it is you do to keep your eyes all shiny

A tawny gypsy girl
Sleeping blanketed by stars
Beneath the tilt-a-whirl
Where we were coyly caught alone
All fumbling with your blouse

Tell me why you lied
And what it is you do to keep your eyes all shiny

And in the rollercoaster din
By the parachutes in saddle shoes
You break your shins
But I have never seen two eyes so shiny

And the sullen beery swine
Who try to tangle you
In sullen beery balls of twine
Have they ever seen two eyes so shiny?

Boys in denim vests
Smoking cigarettes between
The bootblack fingertips
Sweetly tipsy by the half light
The light and the half light

Tell me why you lied

. . .



My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
In pre-war Paris
Smuggling bombs for the underground.
And she met my father
At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
He was disguised as a Russian cadet
in the employ of the Axis.
And there in the half-light
Of the provincial midnight
To a lone concertina
They drank in cantinas
And toasted to Edith Piaf
And the fall of the Reich.

My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
And left for the cattle
But later was found by a communist
Who'd deserted his ranks
To follow his dream
To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
I get letters sometimes.
They bought a plantation
She weeds the tobacco
He offends the nation
And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear."
"Sincerely, your sister."

So my parents had me
To the disgust of the prostitutes
On a bed in a brothel.
Surprisingly raised with tender care
'Til the money got tight
And they bet me away
To a blind brigadier in a game
Of high stakes canasta.
But he made me a sailor
On his brigadier ship fleet.
I know every yardarm
From main mast to jib sheet.
But sometimes I long to be landlocked

. . .



Angel, won't you call me?
Could I be the only
though I am a lost cause,
Angel, won't you call me?

Waiting for a sweet breeze,
read it in the tea-leaves
Saw them crown you May Queen
Heard you sing the sweetest thing

But I been so unbridled
I fled at the face of my rival
when I felt his breath
at the back of my neck
Angel, won't you call me?

So here I am in corduroy
Catch it in your Polaroid
Thought it was an off night,
caught in such a warm light

But, Angel, won't you call me?
Could I be the only
though I am a lost cause
Angel, won't you call me?

But I been so unbridled
I fled at the face of my rival
when I felt his breath
at the back of my neck

. . .



Truly, with his thorn in your side
and you don't know why
Julie dips her toe in the tide
and she don't know why
No, she don't know why she got
all dolled up for a suicide
And when the stage lights dimmed on the fading scrim,
it was morning before the cheering died

Is it too late to tell you that I don't mind?

King George in imperial robe
and a lazy eye
knelt down as the semaphore broke
on his tawdry bride
But we don't know why he got
all stressed out on the motherland
With his T.V. sets and his fighter jets
and the royal ubiquitous handycam

Is it too late to tell you that I don't mind?

Here's you with your mom on your back
going into the woods
She's so proud that you're staying on track
like a good son should
But you don't know why you got
all choked up when you said goodbye
And you can hear her still when the nights are still
all crying out for calamine

Is it too late to tell you that I don't mind?


. . .



I'm really sorry Steven
But your bicycle's been stolen
I was watching it for you
'Til you came back in the fall
Guess I didn't do a good job after all

I was feeling really sorry Steven
And I spent all morning grieving
And everybody's saying
That you'll take the news gracefully
Somehow I don't think I'll be getting off so easily

I meant her no harm
When I left her unlocked
Outside the Orange Street Food Farm
I was just running in
Didn't think I'd be that long
I came out, she was gone
And all that was there was some bored old dog
Leashed up to the place where your bicycle had been
Guess we'll never see poor Madeleine again

Let this be consolation, Steven
That all the while you were in England
I treated her with care and respect
And have her lots of love
And I was usually pretty good 'bout locking her up

Where has she gone?
Well, I bet she's on the bottom of a Frenchtown pond
Rudely abused on some hescher's joyride
So I wrote you this song
In the hope that you'd forgive me
Even though it was wrong
Being so careless with a thing so great

. . .


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