Like cupid with his stupid arrow.
Tipped with either gold or lead.
He shoots his target dutifully.
That shit goes straight to his head.
One tip sharp and paralyzing.
All reason, it is shred.
The other blunt, almost poisonous
That fill you full of dread.
So, I'll grab my narcotics.
You reach for your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.
The lights were drawn.
The deck was stacked.
The dealer wore a smirk.
You commented derisively
On the pattern of his shirt.
Although the critique was justified,
I asked you, Is it worth
Pissing off the dealer
And loosing all respect you've earned.
I grab my narcotics.
You reach for your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.
I grab my narcotics.
You twiddle with your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.
This sweet, mournful “loose concept” album from folk artist Ian McCuen tracks a journey across the bleak landscape of American life. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 22, 2022
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