Don't Be Literary, Darling!
Meh, didn't come out too good. Didn't have time to do backup vox and lead guitar.
Nothing happened before these low quality recordings were made with a bad mic on a computer with no knowledge of how to make good recordings.
and
Lyrics
When the winter's cold crept in to chill your skin, I thought I saw
Your dermal cells shout to tell each other, "Prepare for war!"
Their battle stations were the manifestations of goosebumps on your arm;
I thought, no, I knew, they had spelled a story in braille about you.
But I, though spectacled, am far from blind.
Often, I'm distracted by the light in your eyes.
I hadn't a hope, I hadn't a prayer, of deciphering those lines.
There's no letters in those bumps that I could ever dream to find.
Like Joyce's later novels, like untranslated Flaubert,
I can't read you, I can't read you, the talent just isn't there
I've made progress with Proust, though I've a few pages to go
I can't read you, I can't read you, and Cliff hasn't published notes.
Well, I guess we could have both learned something from Ms Moorsom's advice,
'cause at times, I can be James in the morning and Hemmingway at night,
And a post-structuralist critique of our friendship sheds no light,
But you, you can't read; I suppose that adds a hint of irony
to my struggles with deciphering you.
What I'd give to know if you feel as I do!
Could it be that you have these same struggles too?
Any hint of an answer would come out of the blue
'Cause like Joyce's later novels, like untranslated Voltaire,
I can't read you, I can't read you, it's giving me gray hair!
I'm getting there with Proust, but there's so much left to go
I can't read you, I can't read you, for my efforts I've nothing to show
