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letra de vincent van gogh - st. lenox

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[verse 1]
you know the movie where the hero runs, fast as he
can through corridor, walls caving in
or to the altar to profess a secret love
praying that he makes it to the church on time
i always thought that maybe i could be the good saint
a virtuous example of grace under fire
you like to think of yourself as the protagonist
of the movie that is your own life

i had a real bad dream last night about this
year stage fright typical sad musician fears
my voice took to the ocean and never returned
left me out to dry in front of all my friends
you’ll never understand what it’s like to be a
pre-long-since-forgotten singer-songwriter, buddy
i could scream at the top of my lungs, my despair
but the sound waves would never even get to you

[chorus]
’cause i know, you’ll say, “he’s never going to make it”
shut me down like i would never do to you
it shakes my confidence to see you this way
never believing in anything that i could do
i know you’ll say, “he’s never going to make it.”
cut me down size, like you think that i deserve
it shakes my confidence to see you this way
never believing that i could be your hero

[verse 2]
i had a clear as a bell dream about a tall forest
on a mountain top in the expanse of missouri
i ran up to the top of the peak for the view
but the ivy would drag me back to earth again
when i was younger i would have dreams of soaring
over the top of the roof of my house off to the hills
but lately i can never seem to escape
from the rising waters in my living room

you know the life of a troubador is a real sad
solitary state of affairs in these modern times
like a yogi up on a mountain, thinner than air
only to be heard by those who venture there
i had a slow slow motion dream about the long
corn field at the end of the street by the church yard
i cried out across the valleys and hills
but the vacuum had sucked out all the oxygen

[chorus]

[verse 3]
you know the life of a troubador is a real
low down hang dog way to run the clock out now
like a swan song at the end of a film, where everyone
leaves before the ending as the credits roll up
i had a real strange work day dream about the
future where i saw my own self staring back at me
i was ragged and worn out to the bone
like a cartoon sad ghost on the tv screen

you know that vincent van gogh died of a gun shot
to the chest in the tall fields out in the country
never even remembered by his neighbors and friends
but a poor crazy hipster with a sad blue streak
and when i think of world history as a real
indicator of my own trajectory and future
i can’t even rise out of bed anymore
’cause the weight of the prediction is a hemi

[chorus]

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