Late at night termites crawl inside my ears
With what’s inside they built a mask to frighten off my fears
Tiny hands build brittle dreams
the kind that make your mother scream
The kind that your ex lover sings
Oh you poor little baby
crying hard in your basket
you’ve been (wading) in the water
floating toward desire
Oh your poor petty baby
I found you on my doorstep
But I can't let you in
I’ve one of my own
And one is too many and two is just absurd
Oh your poor little baby
One day you’ll understand.
And I can hope your lover dies
A shaken baby wishing for earthquakes
Let the floods flow
Up the Hudson to your windows
An electrical storm waiting at your door
Knocking in the night
Grabs him by the throat
Since I don’t understand
I’ll just make a mess
With these wooden limbs,
My mask and a few trusty ants.
credits
from The Hornbook,
released June 30, 2011
Seth Tillinghast - Drums
Peter Mollica - Accordion, Vocals, Guitar
Kelly Mollica - Editing
This sweet, mournful “loose concept” album from folk artist Ian McCuen tracks a journey across the bleak landscape of American life. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 22, 2022