Page 1 of 1

Good Intentions Paving Company

PostPosted: 17 May 2010, 13:50
by milky moon
    Twenty miles left to the show.
    Hello, my old country. Hello.
    Stars are just beginning to appear,
    and I have never, in my life,
    before been here.

    And it's my heart, not me,
    who cannot drive,
    at which conclusion you arrived,
    watching me sit here, bolt upright,
    and cry for no good reason
    at the Eastering sky.

    And the tilt of this strange nation,
    and the will to remain for the duration
    (waving the flag,
    feeling it drag).
    Like a bump on a bump on a log, baby;
    like I'm in a fistfight with the fog, baby;
    step, ball-change, and a-pirouette!

    And I regret
    how I said to you,
    Honey, just open your heart,
    when I've got trouble
    even opening a honey jar.
    And that, right there, is where we are.

    I've been 'fessing, double-fast,
    addressing questions nobody asked.
    I'll get this joy off of my chest, at last,
    and I will love you
    till the noise has long since passed.

    I did not mean to shout, Just drive,
    Just get us out, dead or alive.
    The road's too long to mention--
    Lord, it's something to see!--
    laid down by the
    Good Intentions Paving Company,
    all the way to the thing
    we've been playing at, darling.
    I can see that you're wearing
    your staying-hat, darling.

    For the time being, all is well.
    Won't you love me a spell?
    This is blindness, beyond all conceiving,
    while behind us, the road is leaving,
    and leaving, and falling back
    like a rope gone slack.

    Well, I saw straightaway
    that the lay was steep,
    but I fell for you, honey,
    easy as falling asleep.
    And that, right there,
    is the course I keep.

    And no amount of talking
    is going to soften the fall,
    but, like after the rain,
    step out of the overhang. That's all.
    It had a nice ring to it,
    when the old opry house rang,
    so, with a solemn auld lang
    syne, sealed, delivered,
    I sang.

    And there is hesitation,
    and it always remains
    (concerning you, me,
    and the rest of the gang),
    but, in our quiet hour,
    I feel I see everything,
    and am in love
    with the hook
    upon which everyone hangs.

    And I know you meant
    to show the extent
    to which you gave a goddang--
    you ranged real hot and real cold,
    but I'm sold,
    I am at home on that range.
    And I do hate to fold,
    right here, at the top of my game,
    when I've been trying
    with my whole heart and soul
    to stay right here, in the right lane.
    But it can make you feel over, and old
    (Lord, you know it's a shame),
    when I only want for you to pull over,
    and hold me,
    till I can't remember my own name.