Woorden: Mountain Goats, The. Minor Joan Crawford Vehicle.

cheap drapes frame the windows
no one speaks his mind
buckling asphalt up ahead
smoking wreck behind
stock footage of a ballroom
nearly flooded with champagne
we?re lost in the desert
and it?s never going to rain

every time in this house
someone opens up his mouth
all his hopes and dreams begin
their dizzy journey south
when the pipes began to freeze
we turned on all the taps
tearing a good thing to pieces
bickering over the scraps

fried clams from the diner
diesel on the wind
gorge ourselves on caviar
when the boat comes in
wait for someone neutral
to reckon up the score
grease on the walls of the kitchen
dried blood on the living room floor

you there in your nightgown
head all full of dreams
all the things we saw together
splitting at the seams
try to cauterize the wound
just get nowhere fast
holding each other for dear life
shielding ourselves from the blast