Flower Pot City (Overcast) (demo) Lyrics

Tuesday morning, overcast

That awful feeling doesn't last

That sense of freedom, everywhere you go

That benediction you'll never know

In the grip of the flower pot city

With a smile so prescient that you think that god could be real

Thursday morning, overcast

Your baby brother grew up so fast

His sweet and sour American face

Looks like it inhales three packs a day

His throat is a loose bundle of cords

Singing to the tune of a dying horse

In the grip of the flower pot city

Every man who tells you how to act has got whiskey on his breath

Sunday morning, overcast

He raised his collar coming home from mass

She looks like a ghost in her silver slip

The balletic humdrum of brilliant skin

No better bed friend than a woman fucked

His sleep-soaked odor, her gentle touch

A man of the cloth, listener by trade

Condemns in the evening, what he does by day

In the grip of the flower pot city

Throughout the early morning, those little hours so still

The music keeps coming

And the signs keep pointing

And the engine turning over, begging you not to stop

And the wheels keep turning

And the headlights cut the fog

And the voice in your head is telling you to get out

Of the grip of the flower pot city