The Size Queens - Twenty Minutes | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• The Size Queens
• Twenty Minutes

I called all the gods of the Salvation Army. I called all the gods of Goodwill. I assembled them and I said: For the sake of everyone that you’ve taken, give me twenty minutes to bring them back. And let me walk with them to their old SROs and give them a few minutes to get their things; whatever they left behind. It’s not much, what they want to take to the other side. Oh, it’s really not anything: a couple of photographs, some new syringes, stolen piece of jewelry and some cutlery. Just a few things to take, to take to the other side. Now when King Tut was buried, well I don’t know, I didn’t see the exhibit but I know there was a lot of stuff packed in it. A lot of stuff that was buried by his side and his trusted help to make it an easier ride. And it’s all about the transitions so I asked the gods to come and listen: Just let them have their twenty minutes to enjoy their last high. To enjoy their last high. Won’t you give them all just twenty minutes? To walk up their old stairwell without some shadow hanging over them. Won’t you let them walk back up the stairwell? Remember how it felt to slip their key inside. Oh, none of them had so very much. Don’t be so stingy with your touch. Don’t be so stingy with your touch. Cause none of them had so very much. Don’t be so stingy with your love. It only takes a little love to get by whatever’s on the other side. If there’s guardians or demons, give them what they need to get through the gates. I don’t know if they’re electric gates or if that’s where everyone waits. I don’t know if there’s some kind of password or if someone sits behind a stone wall, just a set of eyes behind two brick holes. Won’t you give them back a little more time? All the time they had to stand in line, waiting on their benefits. They’re wondering about their benefits. Selling their food stamps for some dimes. Selling their blood for nothing. Now they don’t have to do any of that, since they won’t be coming back, since they won’t be coming back. What if they need their pots and pans? I hear they don’t need them there. They only have to open up their hands. Twenty minutes, twenty minutes to listen to the songs they loved. And if someone loved them, let them hear it. Just one song that they loved. And if they had a claim, let them claim it. If something wasn’t named, let them name it. Oh, maybe it was just a child. Maybe it was just a child. And the Ferrier, and the Ferrier of souls, I hope he accepts penny rolls. And if he doesn’t, maybe an old Fast Pass. Just let them pass those boney doors or maybe it’s just a bricked up wall with two eyes in a hole. Two eyes that look into your soul. Maybe it’s a woman in a veil sitting at the top of a mountain. You go crawling up there. You were expecting a fountain. You go crawling up there. Don’t go expecting her to care. Twenty minutes, don’t be so stingy with your time and so hungry for mine.

[Shamanic tongues]
I am the God of Permission
And you are my subjects

I say, we say:
We, mud people, snake people, tar people
We, bohemians walking on millennial thin ice
Our bodies pierced, tattooed, martyred, scarred
Our skin covered with hieroglyphs & flaming questions
We, Living Museum of Modern Oddities & Sacred Monsters
We, vatos cromados y chucas neo-barrocas
We, indomitable drag queens, transcendental putas
waiting for love and better conditions in the shade
We, lusting for otherness
We, “subject matter” of fringe documentaries
the Hollywood refusniks,
the greaser bandits & holy outlaws
of advanced Capitalism
We, without guns, without Bibles
We, who never pay, who never pray to the police or to the army
We, who never kissed the hand of a bishop or a curator
We, who barter and exchange favors & talismans
We, who still believe in community, another community,
a much stranger and wider community
We, community of illness, madness & dissent
community of horny angels & tender demons
We, frai