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Yellow Mailbox
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A song about unspoken thoughts -- unpleasant and sour -- that will never be heard. Lovely acoustic setting by Jim Chapman, written for an acoustic competition.
Artist
Genre
Charts
Peak: #680   (149,936 songs currently in Acoustic)
Peak in sub-genre: #119   (20,610 songs currently in Acoustic Rock)
Upload date
July 20, 2006
Meta data
Bitrate: 128 kbps. Runtime: 3:09. File size: 2.90 MB.
Writer (words/music)
Z. Mulls/Jim Chapman
Copyright
2006
Story behind the song
Art Buchwald, a famous 70's humorist, was dying in Washington. In an article about him, the writer mentioned a personal encounter: "And I drove him home that night, grasping a scrap of paper on which he'd scrawled, ever so slowly and in trembling script, his address in Vineyard Haven with the words 'yellow mailbox.'" I thought about the post office knowing where to deliver mail just by that phrase "yellow mailbox." And I thought of him sick and dying and the mailbox unattended, piling up. The image of the abandoned mailbox with unread thoughts sparked a number of images. The song's about thoughts we suppress, that we don't say, while a relationship is dying. Probably better that we don't say them. And when the relationship is over, it's too late anyway. Another experiment in "collage" writing -- a series of images and impressions that swirl around a central idea..... Photo courtesy Carolyn Gabriel's B&B in Oregon
Lyrics
That’s a really pretty card Where did you buy it? It’s a little avant-garde Laced with disquiet All your semantics Come down to this Coded lines concealed with a kiss Send it to the yellow mailbox Overnight express In an envelope marked 'urgent' With no return address Send it to the yellow mailbox Hidden in the weeds With the literary journals That nobody ever reads You can set those sullen eyes Behind sunglasses It’s Easier to recognize Pleasure as it passes Lush wildflowers Grow by the road Thoughts condense then softly implode (chorus) Send it to the yellow mailbox, etc. When the sun’s up in the east When you’re ready for the truth When you’ve learned your lesson There’s a diplomatic priest With a slot inside his booth To slip him your confession I fall down and spill my guts Out in the alley Half-amused I’m missing what’s In the finale Vision is blurred Can’t read the marquee Dropped my program In the debris