|
|
Tragically Hip - Poets Tragically Hip - Poets |
| Spring starts when a heartbeat's poundin'
When the birds can be heard above the reckonin' carts doing some final accounting
Lava flowin' in Super Farmer's direction
He's been gettin' reprieve from the heat in the frozen-food section (yaa-Aa)
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Don't tell me that they're talkin' tough
Don't tell me that they're anti-social
Somehow not anti-social enough, all right
And porn speaks to it's splintered legions
To the pink amid the withered corn stalks in them winter regions (euyeaaah)
While aiming at the archetypal father
He said with such broad and tentative swipes why do you even bother (yeeaaah)
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Those Himalayas of the mind
Don't tell me what the poets been doing
In the long grasses over time
{ Instra
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
On the street and the epitome of vague
Don't tell me how the universe is altered
When you find out how he gets paid, all right
If there's nothing more that you need now
Lawn cut by bare-breasted women
Beach bleached towels within reach for the women gotta make it that'll make it by swimmin'
(Guitar, drum ends) |
| |
Ac/dc:
Bryan Adams:
