Fugitive Air-Of Montreal
I do wrong,
strictly speaking, just for myself
Because it makes me feel like a real man
To hold germane over my business And
I refuse to be abused by the
mill of blissful decay
Besides I'm used to all of
my scruples deserting me
Like they're wont to dare
The lady from the plaque
hunched over on the stool
Saying I've been rolled so many times
It's just feeding the pigeons
Now her grandson swings
a little rabbit by the leg
While his mother's playing
two little wooden flute
Playing some fugitive air
to escape the streets' waggeries
Pathetic!
Has anybody here seen my orphan blonde
Has anyone seen where he's gone?
What he thinks I owe him is his former life but
How can I unmake someone else's mistakes
I guess I was his antihero
the bitter word on his lips
I hope I never feel a terror like
when you discovered your autonomy had flipped
I feel like I possess
only the bright aspect of his ability
but none of the good ones
I'm a walking mausoleum
the scent of rotting flesh
Mother always loved you best
liked your teeth upon her breast
The smithy remove the oils
from the eyes of street cats
Through some shitty witchcraft
and rubs their brows and genitalia
I had no idea how deeply I wounded you
But I don't need no forgiveness
and no level of contrition will ever do
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