The Decemberists - The Tain | Текст песни

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• The Decemberists
• The Tain

Crone:
Here upon this pillow
Made of reed and willow
You're a fickle little twister
Are you sweet on your sister?
Your fallow won't leave you alone

And granted for their pleasure
Possesions laid to measure
She's a salty little pisser
With your cock in her kisser
But now she's a will of her own

PART II

Husband:
Damn your ankles and eyes wide
From you fingernails to your ponytails too
King of the insects and the M-5
Over Charlemagne in a motorcade too

And baby needs a new prize
Baby needs a new and shiny prize

Captain:
In this place called heavenly
You were born here
This place called heavenly
You were born here
You were born here

Husband:
And now all the marchers descend from high
I will dedicate all of my awakenings to this

And damn all the angles that oppress my sight
I will bleed your heart through a samovar soon

Captain:
In this place called heavenly
You were born here
This place called heavenly
You were born here
You were born here

PART III

Soldier:
They settled dust in your hair
To watch you shake and shout it out
With our armaments bared
We shed our bags and travel-alls

From the lee of the wall
He comes in the chang and the chariot
And all his eunuchs in thrall
Can scarce lift his line and lariat

Here come loose his hounds
To blow me down

Chorus of waifs:
Blow me down

Soldier:
On this stretch of ground
I'll lay me down

Chorus of waifs:
Lay me down

Soldier:
To sleep

Chaplain:
And now stricken with pangs
That tear at our backs like thistle down
The mirror's soft silver tain
Reflects our last and birthing hour

Soldier:
Here come loose his hounds
To blow me down

Chorus of waifs:
Blow me down

Soldier:
On this stretch of ground
I'll lay me down

Chorus of waifs:
Lay me down

Soldier:
To sleep

PART IV

Evening

Widow:
O, the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin
As you climb up hillside, forest and fen

Your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine
Your memories wrapped within paper and twine

The room that you lie in is dusty and hard
Sleeping soft babies on piles of yards
Of gingham, taffeta, cotton, and silk
Your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk

When the dawn comes to greet you, you'll rise with clothes on
And advance with the others, singing old songs
Of cattle and maidens and withered old queens
Let the music carry you on

The room that you lie in is dusty and hard
Sleeping soft babies on piles of yards
Of gingham, taffeta, cotton, and silk
Your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk

PART V

Woman:
Darling dear, what have you done?
Your clothes are torn, your make-up runs

Daughter:
I ran through brambles, blooming thistle
I washed my face in the river when you whistled me on

Woman:
Darling dear, what have you done?
Your hands and face are smeared with blood

Daughter:
The chaplain came and called me out
To beat and to butcher his mother's sow

Woman:
But darling dear, they found him dead
This morning on the riverbed

But hush now darling, don't you cry
Your reward's in the sweet by-and -by
Hush now baby, don't you cry
Your reward's in the sweet by-and-by

Crone:
And now we've seen your powers
Softly stretch the hours
You're a fickle little twister
Are you sweet on your sister?
As now you go wandering home

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