Your response, what he wants
World in pain, gives him joy
Ignorance, his domain
Fuels our rage. sets the stage
It’s Sad! Sad! All the things that we could have had
There won’t be flowers on our graves
It’s Sad! Sad! All the things that we could have achieved
Now we grieve and bleed but never concede
Now awake, now aware
Gets so bad there’s no time to be scared
Another year is just another year
Time to wipe that shit-stain clear
It’s Sad! Such a waste of my time
Feeble man with a reptile mind
You come along…calling us all damn fools
– so fierce the froth of your own spit slobbers over your lips –
Always blabbering we’re all going to hell straight off
And you know all about it.
But I’ve read (his) words. I know what he said.
You don’t scare me. I’ve got your number.
And I know how much you know about (him)
from Carl Sandberg, “To A Contemporary Bunkshooter.” 1916
Boston indie rock stalwarts Pile pair lyrical brooding with their trademark askew chord progressions for a sense of magnificent tension. Bandcamp Album of the Day Apr 18, 2017