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about

Written June 1998

lyrics

Frescoed fire adorns the prison walls
Calls ring loud as the fortress falls
Hammered hard on the road of flight
Banished blind out into the night
The siren sounds will never meet
The fated fortunes of the fleet
You listless pistons will never get in
Because convention, my darling, is crumbling again

Time-honored smiths with celebrated smiles
Compile medallions rendered worthless in awhile
The moneyed gums produce a polished mediocre
Bluffing bold with every hand of poker
And at the foot of every bed
The gargoyle grins and spins his head
Dislogic, lush with any win
But convention, my darling, is crumbling again

Deperate daisies, naked in the fields
Some sacred paton, cutting countless deals
Resilient guerillas at the fore
Reduced to monkeys and ushered to the door
And the chimeras turn their hands
Unto the dancers of demand
The horizon, apocalypse akin
Because convention, my darling, is crumbling again

Each cycled serpent, resistant to rebirth
Swims like lead through the liquid earth
Easy pleasin' only goes so far
Poetic pap, cries the current lonely bard
The weathered oar succumbs to stroke
The tired traditions fit to choke
Stubborn steel, resistant to the bend
But convention, my darling, is crumbling again

One moustached cabbage, blindfolded by desire
Surrendered saints sit bobbing in the mire
Dejected jester, withered in the weeds
Sweet Eli sings the song of three
And every marching puppy knows
The varied values of the shows
But the baker, bothered by the wind
Can see that convention is crumbling again

One whispering soul, spinning in the mills
Condemnéd thought caught thumbing through the bills
Drums, drums in the deep
Contageous council in the house you keep
The lantern spills a succoured glow
Into the havens of the know
The radiating silence, midst the din
Should tell you convention is crumbling again

The fired pirates sing unto the sun
Faced with traces of another hallowed hun
Birdseed sacrilege adorns the sallow serf
Baroque barnyards battle for their turf
The silent waging rages wild
Inside the eyeballs of a child
His minted interest grows into a grin
But convention, my darling, is crumbling again

Cry salvation as they're heading for the wreck
Dispose a million as they introduce the next
Turnin' over like a water mill
From the foam right back into the spill
Resonating through the ears
Of a people loud, so no one hears
The chords of truth, muted midst the sin
And convention, my darling, is crumbling again

Sweet mercies seek through the tolling tongues
Through ceaseless crows of confusion hung
Alabaster casts the cathedral crash
And introduces the dawn of day at last
Headless horsemen on the skirts
Search for the heavens in the dirt
Their tattered saddles won't have time to mend
Because convention, my darling, is crumbling again

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Rob Getzschman Los Angeles, California

Rob Getzschman is a singer-songwriter and producer from Omaha living in Los Angeles. He was previously front man for DC-based Analog Jetpack, played bass for LA's Highland Hawks and writes and produces music for Mighty Good Road. www.mightygoodroad.com

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