All songs written by Stephin Merritt.
It's Useless To Struggle
It's useless to struggle. It's useless to pray. Nothing is beautiful or good in any way. You left me black and blue and lying on the floor. I could call the doctor but I don't care anymore. It's useless to struggle. It's useless to sing.
City of the Damned
Kick off your shoes, come join the show. Get the blues and let yourself go. Take off that happy smile, madame. Come along with us to the city of the damned. You'll be doing a lot more crying where the sun doesn't dare to shine. Don't tell your friends we're on the lam. Ride the magic hearse to the city of the damned. Leave behind everything you own. We're going off to the great unknown. Leave behind all your dreams and plans. Won't be needing them in the city of the damned. Won't you come along to the city of the damned.
The Abandoned Castle of My Soul
I was young and impressionable, my morality questionable, when I happened to fall into a howling abyss, and I haven't hit the bottom yet. The abandoned castle of my soul. I was only seventeen when I lost control in the abandoned castle of my soul. I reached out for anything white with unspeakable appetites, found myself in the lair of a killing despair. Now it's ten years on and I'm still there.
Your Long White Fingers
Your long white fingers slither and glide. No gloves will hold them. They cannot hide. They frighten children and they make dogs howl. They glow in darkness and fill the faithful with doubt. Your long white fingers. Passion and grace. Gesticulations from some dark place. They look unnatural, faintly obscene. They loom large in all the strangest of dreams.
Ever Falls the Twilight
It's possible that even we were younger, our pockets full and never knowing hunger, charmed like sleepwalkers on a precipice, dreaming as one inside our chrysalis. Out the summer windows, in through winter doors, ever falls the twilight on our jagged shores. Where once was land of rare and rolling mountains. The sea came in through all our golden fountains. The truth is as sudden as a hailstorm and guides weary sailors to the maelstrom.
The Tiny Goat
The tiny goat wanted a birthday party and sent out invitations to its friends, but when the day came none of them remembered, so it gouged out its eyes with fountain pens. The world is cruel and the moon remote. Suicide was not an option for the tiny goat. The tiny goat was very, very ugly, and like all ugly things it fell in love. When twenty years of waiting turned to nothing, it closed its eyes and lay down on the stove. When the world bites, there's no antidote. Who would want to spend forever with a tiny goat? The world's a leech crawling down one's throat. One would rather be a tick than be a tiny goat.
In a Cave
We're in a cave at the end of the world, cooking and eating our friends.
Copyright (c) Sep 1999 - Mar 2006 by The Distant Plastic Treehouse