A mostly true story, neither the first nor the last song I will write about the summer of ’07. “A metaphor is just a fancy word for a lie” is my taking responsibility for the few untrue details in the narrative. One such untruth is that, honestly, I didn’t know that day would come. There’s an old adage: the more something is repeated, the less likely it is to be true.
Brittle Bones
I knew this day I knew this day
Everybody knew I knew this day would come
The season grew the path away
Everybody knew I knew this day would come
Living in the stories of the riverside
Leaning tower barns where the murders fly
Bending over under bridges you would sigh
Didn’t everybody know this day would come
We took that car in brittle bones
Down through the valley by the painted homes
Denting the doors on Dalhousie Street
Just to jump city when the neighbours see
Now Alberta’s a stone’s throw away
You’re selling that story at the Georgian Bay
The sun roof’s closed to keep out the sky
A metaphor is just a fancy word for a lie
Standing on a cliff spreading ashes around
Everybody knew I knew this day would come
Assailing my ears just to still the sound
Didn’t everybody know this day would come
-DGH
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