It's a crying shame
That you're all caught up in playing along with that guy's tired old game
He don't even know where to go to hear the tap tap tap of a pop band's rap
He's bobbin' along to the tired tunes of modern rock radio
But there is a song -- hiding in your feet
As they bounce around to the lo-fi sound of a slightly too twee beat
They say
"I wish someone'd tell me about Calvin Johnson; I wish someone'd play me some Amelia Fletcher.
I hear there's a band called 'Tullycraft,' what the hell does that mean?"
My doo doo doos and la la las
have always sounded like the ga ga gas
of a baby cooing, a baby
cooing in time to a bouncy bassline
trying to force a self-referential rhyme
It's unfortunate for sure
that you say you aren't looking; you say that you aren't on the market
You say you aren't too good at math, and you just don't like science
We'll be literary, darling! Just don't read Jane Eyre!
But there is a song in the kitsch you long to embrace
It bounces around to the catchy sound of a slightly too simple beat
It says
"I wish I had known about Calvin Johnson; I wish I'd found out about Amelia Fletcher.
I hear there's a band called The Field Mice, couldn't they find a drummer?"
My doo doo doos and la la las
have always sounded like the ga ga gas
of a baby crying, a baby
crying in time to a bouncy drumline
trying to force a self-referential rhyme
too pretentious for pop....
too cute for rock....
