1. |
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Grief made the young spring so splintering cold
The wedding bells are taunting us
And all the droplets of gold could not bring us back to it
The idle, youth, and repose
Oh the plentiful morn’, the hour I adore
The faucet gushing a current of the unknown
Oh, but I currently fold like cheap cardboard box
Where did the origami go?
You’ve finally found your goal:
To grow old
Holy mackerel, it’s a joke
What happened to the banter
‘’hey grey-beard loon, you are such a kook’’
You’ll marry me to a noose
If I call you a goose,
Can’t you just get over it?
You’ve finally found your goal:
To throw stones
‘’Heel! Here is how you feel!’’
Orders from the analyst
Are screenshot, and copy paste a brain
‘’Sir, have you gone insane?
I can’t live like this’’
The coroner ‘round the corner begs to differ
He’s says ‘’let’s just let it simmer,
you’ll grow into it’’
But I’d rather grow a second tongue
So I can be the one
To say I ain’t buying that
No, I ain’t buying that, I ain’t buying that
So retire me, un-hire me, cross me out,
I’d rather not exist than to pretend that I am free
You’ve finally found your goal:
To control
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2. |
Strangers in a Alley
04:21
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I am reading your diary
I got one of your copies
When you were passing them out
To strangers in an alley
I am surprised that they cared
That you’ve been everywhere
Sigh. Your eyes on the marquee
You’re high on the design
It’s so cheap the way you believe
In strangers in an alley
I am surprised that they cared
That you’ve been everywhere
I am reading your diary
I got one of your copies
When you were passing them out
Mine’s the picture of envy
I got one of your musings for laughs
As if you will last
To strangers in an alley
I am surprised that they cared
That you’ve been everywhere
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3. |
Hopefully
06:48
|
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My heart is full as the winter is cold
I am drowning in caffeine with nowhere to go
There’s a light in the kitchen that’s always alone
Where I’m teaching myself to patiently grow
The entirety of me in six hundred square feet
The abandoned piano is just up the street
Where I’m playing to myself, playing to myself
Playing to myself, playing to myself
But hopefully, there’s a song for that
The deserts are melting by December suns
The ideas are slowing, the ongoing bottleneck
Every opinion is a loaded gun
And for every answer, there’s an opposite one
The children are apparently running the show
While the wise men and women appear not to know
That impossible comes in unfortunate dreams
And the parable tells of a man on the street
Soapbox car racing on the ambien team
He never made it to the finish line, it seems
The billion dollar torture machine
Is as popular as anything I’ve seen
Like eighty million elephants by the sea
Forward walking eyes closed
To drown themselves, and me
But hopefully, there’s a dance for that
Kindly, you asked me, ‘’where should I go?’’
I replied ‘’sorry, I never left home
But perhaps you should try someplace new
A forest, a lake, an islet, I don’t know
A mall, an emergency room, or a pew
Somewhere someone will take care of you’’
I hope the end won’t be tit for tat
I hope that hope is not a bureaucrat, and
I hope the after brings me something new
I hope that the after is something to laugh at, and
Hopefully, there’s room for that
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Matt Holubowski Montreal, Québec
Matt Holubowski's first album 'Ogen, Old Man' was written and recorded in the spirit of simplicity, embracing of
imperfection, and the search for truth and meaning. The raw, lo-fi album meant to bring the focus back to story telling, as was originally the tradition of folk music.
Holubowski's second opus is set to appear in the fall, with more arrangements and colours, but the same candour.
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