In Nebraska, no one listens and everyone wants to know where you went to highschool. Omaha's the worst; can't throw a rock without hitting someone that knows who you are - and you've never met 'em. It's the smallest town city, and they call the heart the old market. It's a downtown turn around, with people wrapped up in your business faster than you can say, "Take a hike, bud, I just wanna get to know this girl, here -"
Who are you, lady? What's your name? Why'd you stay? What'd ya get out of it, grab a drink, doll & tell me your dreams and whether or not they look like mine -
Tell me you're walking fast down that grey snake sidewalk, talking my way, about to be speaking easy in my ear. Tell me about cobblestone downtown streets lit up like Christmas 365, and tell me you've got a red dress and a taste for wine. Tell me I can follow those heel-clicks all the way home, girl, tell me there's a good reason not to blow this town. I just want something real, that's all, wrapped up in pretty maybes. Maybe we'd kiss on a nightlight street, maybe I'd watch you dance with a drink in my hand and it'd look like saving my life.
Maybe I oughtta move, but this dump's home.
I know every corner, I've banged my shins on every knee-high fantasy that ever threw itself in front of me and they all look like these few streets. It's green everywhere. Look out your window and if it ain't ivy, it's trees so thick you'd think there's a jungle out there, full of lions and tigers - but it'd be the only forest where the natives never ran naked and got pissed if they found out you managed to find a place to make love without them seeing and scolding.
Tight knots of drunks huddle together in bars and talk about football and no one hears the music they spent ten bucks on the jukebox to play, it's just, "Who's Chuckie fucking?" and some girl spilling her drink on your coat, sayin' "I hate that bitch!" and she's pristine, with those ice blue eyes and that long blonde hair, but you chisel off the cornfed beauty and it's ugly underneath. Towheaded crazy girls, with their thongs hanging out and no-one's ladylike, anymore - they dance like they forgot the moving was about what you didn't do, not showing everyone how you choose to screw, and maybe it's me. Maybe I'm too judgemental for this town, but I'm willing to bet I'm just too smirky for anywhere.
And hell, it ain't no secret - I ain't perfect. Always had a heart meant more for leaving than sticking around; they say I'm here to go. I've never been sure whether it's poor use of perfectly good girls, or a bad excuse not to get tied down.
In the end, it's all loneliness; and then, Marie.
Marie's got the word hope tattooed in black under her brastrap. She thinks one day, someone will undress her and finally understand. Below that, a little girl huddles, beaten, in the hollow of her spine, below that, the word broken. She says it all goes to show that you can put anything behind you, but shit's got this way of sticking around.
Gotta love a stripper with a poetic turn of the tongue. But they never stick around, either.
Who are you, lady? What's your name? Why'd you stay? What'd ya get out of it, grab a drink, doll & tell me your dreams and whether or not they look like mine -
Tell me you're walking fast down that grey snake sidewalk, talking my way, about to be speaking easy in my ear. Tell me about cobblestone downtown streets lit up like Christmas 365, and tell me you've got a red dress and a taste for wine. Tell me I can follow those heel-clicks all the way home, girl, tell me there's a good reason not to blow this town. I just want something real, that's all, wrapped up in pretty maybes. Maybe we'd kiss on a nightlight street, maybe I'd watch you dance with a drink in my hand and it'd look like saving my life.
Maybe I oughtta move, but this dump's home.
I know every corner, I've banged my shins on every knee-high fantasy that ever threw itself in front of me and they all look like these few streets. It's green everywhere. Look out your window and if it ain't ivy, it's trees so thick you'd think there's a jungle out there, full of lions and tigers - but it'd be the only forest where the natives never ran naked and got pissed if they found out you managed to find a place to make love without them seeing and scolding.
Tight knots of drunks huddle together in bars and talk about football and no one hears the music they spent ten bucks on the jukebox to play, it's just, "Who's Chuckie fucking?" and some girl spilling her drink on your coat, sayin' "I hate that bitch!" and she's pristine, with those ice blue eyes and that long blonde hair, but you chisel off the cornfed beauty and it's ugly underneath. Towheaded crazy girls, with their thongs hanging out and no-one's ladylike, anymore - they dance like they forgot the moving was about what you didn't do, not showing everyone how you choose to screw, and maybe it's me. Maybe I'm too judgemental for this town, but I'm willing to bet I'm just too smirky for anywhere.
And hell, it ain't no secret - I ain't perfect. Always had a heart meant more for leaving than sticking around; they say I'm here to go. I've never been sure whether it's poor use of perfectly good girls, or a bad excuse not to get tied down.
In the end, it's all loneliness; and then, Marie.
Marie's got the word hope tattooed in black under her brastrap. She thinks one day, someone will undress her and finally understand. Below that, a little girl huddles, beaten, in the hollow of her spine, below that, the word broken. She says it all goes to show that you can put anything behind you, but shit's got this way of sticking around.
Gotta love a stripper with a poetic turn of the tongue. But they never stick around, either.
