Got Up This Morning

Sage:

It's not that what we're doing is wrong

But let's try to keep this a secret

Between me, you, and the song

A menage a trois that sings to me

Sinfully

When god plays along

Jolie Holland:

What you want with a woman who won't do what you say?

Sage:

I was sweet on her

She was sweet on Jesus

We slept with a blanket barrier between us

Master of her craft, I had her laughin like hyenas

When I asked her if she'd marry an elitist

Staggering genius in lace

With the grace of a drunken monk

The mask isn't seamless cause her face says something's up

But I don't dare ask her I just listen

Switchin to my good ear and adjusting my position

As she discusses Ginsberg I listened and learned

As she dispersed his words I just resisted the urge to do like he would

Whatever he wanted, if she allowed me to

She dangled that carrot then asked me:

"What would Bukowski do?"

Oh don't go there

He'd make you his mom and then completely lie about it in a book later on

Jolie Holland:

Got up this morning

Didn't know right from wrong

Sage:

Spirits were lifted when she whispered something French in my ear

Tension was there

When I responded in English it sounded less sincere

The sex in the air couldn't be left alone

So welcome to the Terrordome

A bedroom full of pheromones

Where nothing that we say is set in stone

If I thought it was for posterity I'd already be writing better poems

But I'm talking in extremes

Best this and best that

Best not regret anything that ever gets said to this hell cat

Creepin on all fours

Ready for combat

With secretive wars sneaking her claws in our contract

Bending every which way but loose with no proof that anything that we've suggested to this day is the whole truth

Jolie Holland:

Got up this morning

Didn't know right from wrong

Sage:

I heard her chemical romance was a medical slowdance

Said my advance was sexual

Held my genitals with cold hands

Set up the Coke cans

Broke out the Red Ryder

Then one by one I tried to knock down everything that's dead inside her

She used to treat street dividers like a balance beam

Arms spread wider than the legs in her dad's magazine

Re-enacting the pages that she got trapped between

I used it for kindling and then spilled the gasoline

Now I'm your water boy

I fetch it from your cheeks just like tennis balls

Smell the stench of your weakness on the bedroom walls

Somebody careless let em vaporize

"Who let these fall to the floor from your poor vacant eyes?"

Disintegrate

This ain't a great first impression

But I work better on pages, they say words are my profession

Let me spell it out in simple language

Plain English

I want your suicide to be a book of mine that I never finish

Jolie Holland:

Got up this morning

Didn't know right from wrong

What you want with a woman who won't do what you say?