Oh my kind grandpa
I've drawn your eyes on the tall
branches of the trees


پدربزرگ مهربانم
من روی درخت هایی که شاخه هاشان بلند بود
چشم های شما را نقاشی کشیدم

FADE IN.

Mama, come try to deliver me;
I've been a rubber baby
since nineteen-ninety-three.
Father, come try to educate me;
I've been your no-good
since I turned thirteen.

Please, Lord, find the redemption in me --
I've grown weary of the way worry
boils, brews, and eats me slow.
See, friend, I can feel, too;
I used to let you down because
that's all I thought I knew
what to do.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

Sister, angel, become bloodshot
at the way I hang; swaying
from the bedroom tree.
Sometimes I mistake my
bad brains for rotting fruit;
mushy peaches, doused in
fishbowl alcohol and
worries I can't shoo.

Good God, Lord,
what am I to do?
Good Lover,
what am I to say?
Good Brother,
I've failed you so.
Good Father,
I'm sorry I'm made this way.

I'm just a young boy unaware
of the stretcher
I think is a bed;
Bad brains make the
star-kid in my head.

Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada
Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah-dadada

FADE OUT.

Poison ivy spreading all over my skin.
I brushed up against death and
never want to do it again.
They say with time it goes away,
but I can still feel it all over me.

The clock doesn't erode
the way I can feel inside.
I dance with the hands
but am, really, looking
for some place to hide.
I've used a neon bible
ever since she died.

And when she couldn't move,
the sirens blared,
she said it'd be okay,
but I felt so scared.
Maybe it's all in my head,
as the roof took rain.
She said 'I'm going far,'
I said, you gotta stay,
you're just in pain.

I'll never show her
what I am capable of.
I was in The New Yorker
and I'm not sure if
she even saw.

There's a paralysis
that comes with love,
related to every coffin drop
that sings from above,
and I wish you knew her, too,
as well as she knew me:
I am twenty-three and
covered in ivy.

When our bones rub softly,
I can take my teeth out and
shine them like skin cutters.
A yellow-bird dress you wear;
the same matchbox socks
that you wouldn't bother.

Sometimes, all the time, I
shiver in the gelatin lake
and what a faux-shake
it would only take
to make you care.

Baby, maybe, you
could love your child
like the sultry sandman;
place them on pinkish pillows,
and pretend your stories are
as real as your lashes.

And what a lamb,
kneeling in the Irish grass,
drinking all that is in her glass,
before breaking it over a wet stone,
and holding it to her throat, singing,
"I've always been surrounded, but
have always felt alone."