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Description
This is more of a sketch, really, with a chord progression I enjoy playing. It's all about memories, I guess.
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Lyrics
the slipping grasp of memory's a knuckleball that caught up in the wind
and if it ever finds its way back to the catchers mitt i know how it will end (a swing and a miss)
just like the old man said to me that sunny day he lost his dear wifes face (they said shes DOA)
you can idolize your pension plan for its high rewards and its low demands but, hey, what the hell'd you miss?
ooh, i can see it widening
the memories are passing
ooh, and the electricity
will keep them everlasting
ooh, and i can no longer believe
that when my eyes look backwards
ooh, that the images they see
will be the same ones they looked after.
the politics of symmetry split two column widths of black newspaper ink
to leave it up to you
and we're so crippled by the arguments of typing hands and talking head that we think
in terms of red and blue
but if you take the time to think at nite of the reasons why our appetite, it craves
some meaning to hold onto,
you might discover that the pen and sword are preoccupied by books and war and who knows what else
Bridge
im running till i hit a snag
wmy memory's a shopping bag
and my recollection's spilled onto the ground
the earth breathes in and sucks it up
like two windblown lips to a water cup
and makes sickening stifling sort of sound
a baseball is resting on the ground
as i lift it to my nose i hear the sound
of my father's voice as i cross the plate
"your a hero son" but then the sound just floats away, away away
and if it ever finds its way back to the catchers mitt i know how it will end (a swing and a miss)
just like the old man said to me that sunny day he lost his dear wifes face (they said shes DOA)
you can idolize your pension plan for its high rewards and its low demands but, hey, what the hell'd you miss?
ooh, i can see it widening
the memories are passing
ooh, and the electricity
will keep them everlasting
ooh, and i can no longer believe
that when my eyes look backwards
ooh, that the images they see
will be the same ones they looked after.
the politics of symmetry split two column widths of black newspaper ink
to leave it up to you
and we're so crippled by the arguments of typing hands and talking head that we think
in terms of red and blue
but if you take the time to think at nite of the reasons why our appetite, it craves
some meaning to hold onto,
you might discover that the pen and sword are preoccupied by books and war and who knows what else
Bridge
im running till i hit a snag
wmy memory's a shopping bag
and my recollection's spilled onto the ground
the earth breathes in and sucks it up
like two windblown lips to a water cup
and makes sickening stifling sort of sound
a baseball is resting on the ground
as i lift it to my nose i hear the sound
of my father's voice as i cross the plate
"your a hero son" but then the sound just floats away, away away
love the song