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Politeísmo (51)

por jpt, em 14.07.13

publicado às 08:04

Politeísmo (20): Atena

por jpt, em 14.03.13

publicado às 16:21

27 Setembro 2009

por jpt, em 27.09.09
No regrets CoyoteWe just come from such different sets of circumstanceI'm up all night in the studiosAnd you're up early on your ranchYou'll be brushing out a brood mare's tailWhile the sun is ascendingAnd I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel...There's no comprehendingJust how close to the bone and the skin and the eyesAnd the lips you can getAnd still feel so aloneAnd still feel relatedLike stations in some relayYou're not a hit and run driver, no, noRacing awayYou just picked up a hitcherA prisoner of the white lines on the freewayWe saw a farmhouse burning downIn the middle of nowhereIn the middle of the nightAnd we rolled right past that tragedyTill we turned into some road house lightsWhere a local band was playingLocals were up kicking and shaking on the floorAnd the next thing I knowThat Coyote's at my doorHe pins me in a corner and he won't take "No!"He drags me out on the dance floorAnd we're dancing close and slowNow he's got a woman at homeHe's got another woman down the hallHe seems to want me anywayWhy'd you have to get so drunkAnd lead me on that wayYou just picked up a hitcherA prisoner of the white lines of the freewayI looked a Coyote right in the faceOn the road to Baljennie near my old home townHe went running thru the whisker wheatChasing some prize downAnd a hawk was playing with himCoyote was jumping straight up and making passesHe had those same eyes - just like yoursUnder your dark glassesPrivately probing the public roomsAnd peeking thru keyholes in numbered doorsWhere the players lick their woundsAnd take their temporary loversAnd their pills and powders to get them thru this passion playNo regrets, CoyoteI just get off up awaysYou just picked up a hitcherA prisoner of the white lines on the freewayCoyote's in the coffee shopHe's staring a hole in his scrambled eggsHe picks up my scent on his fingersWhile he's watching the waitresses' legsHe's too fat from the Bay of FundyFrom Appaloosas and Eagles and tidesAnd the air conditioned cubiclesAnd the carbon ribbon ridesAre spelling it out so clearEither he's going to have to stand and fightOr take off out of hereI tried to run away myselfTo run away and wrestle with my egoAnd with this flameYou put here in this EskimoIn this hitcherIn this prisonerOf the fine white linesOf the white lines on the free, free way

publicado às 05:14



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