(spoken)
New Albion: a city brooding in the night like a couple who won't speak to each other after a fight. Only instead of a fight, it was a revolution, and instead of a couple, it's eight districts, operating almost independently and eyeing each other warily. Out of those eight, pick the one, the district, the street, the building, the pair of shoes you'd least like to be in right now, and that's where you'll find me
(sung)
The faded scene, the dеad man's dream
That are gone likе a song down the river
The hymns they play, jaded, afraid of a never
And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla
The right man's wrong, the loser's song
That are gone like the prints of the killer
The sap you see, drop your dreams in the river
And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla
(spoken)
Well, I heard a glass of bourbon calling all the way from Holbert's Pub to the office, saying “It's time to close up for the day”
But before my fingers can flick the intercom to tell Gwendolyn to go on home, this decked-out dame in an all-business suit strolls in, looking like chilled top-shelf desire stirred over ice, and reeking of politics and ambition – the kind of ambition that lays stagnant and panting over at the Mayor's office when they struggle to get eight districts that don't give a damn to pay them the kind of pittance of attention a toothless prostitute dreams a dapper young dandy will dain to spare on her as she gurgles slovenly in an alcoholic daze
Well, this dame's not the kind to take the time to congratulate or chastise me for that epic last sentence, so I don't take it personally when she gets right down to business
(sung)
New Albion: a city brooding in the night like a couple who won't speak to each other after a fight. Only instead of a fight, it was a revolution, and instead of a couple, it's eight districts, operating almost independently and eyeing each other warily. Out of those eight, pick the one, the district, the street, the building, the pair of shoes you'd least like to be in right now, and that's where you'll find me
(sung)
The faded scene, the dеad man's dream
That are gone likе a song down the river
The hymns they play, jaded, afraid of a never
And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla
The right man's wrong, the loser's song
That are gone like the prints of the killer
The sap you see, drop your dreams in the river
And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla
(spoken)
Well, I heard a glass of bourbon calling all the way from Holbert's Pub to the office, saying “It's time to close up for the day”
But before my fingers can flick the intercom to tell Gwendolyn to go on home, this decked-out dame in an all-business suit strolls in, looking like chilled top-shelf desire stirred over ice, and reeking of politics and ambition – the kind of ambition that lays stagnant and panting over at the Mayor's office when they struggle to get eight districts that don't give a damn to pay them the kind of pittance of attention a toothless prostitute dreams a dapper young dandy will dain to spare on her as she gurgles slovenly in an alcoholic daze
Well, this dame's not the kind to take the time to congratulate or chastise me for that epic last sentence, so I don't take it personally when she gets right down to business
(sung)
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