No matter how high-tech this world gets
Menopausal moms will always pull out the permanent markers
And duct tape this way on neighborhood street signs on Saturday
Mornings from 9 a.m. until everything is gone o'clock
Follow the pointed arrows straight to the driveways of the soon-to-be decluttered
A chaos of cast-offs spills from the human's organic nest
Discarded lives laid bare on asphalt
Plastic soldiers missing limbs stare with vacant eyes
At a world they no longer belong to
Fragile teacups, chipped and mismatched, huddled together like nervous party guests
A dusty rocking horse, its once-vibrant paint dulled by years
Creaks mournfully in the breeze
Ebay be damned
Come and see plastic, rubber, and plush in the flesh
Beanie babies will always be deodorized and strewn on foldable tables
Still stained with their kids' decades-old
Slobber which never seem to wash out
A few will still have their original packaging and ear tags vacuum-sealed
Waiting for that inevitable day they will become valuable again
But for now, get five for twenty dollars
This Claude the Crab is a limited edition
A woman with kind eyes lifts a chipped porcelain doll
Cradling it as if it were a newborn babe
The data point, human nostalgia, a yearning for the intangible
A child, sticky fingers wrapped around a well-worn teddy bear
Beams with a joy I cannot quantify
The data point - human connection, a comfort found in the familiar
The good old yard sale, where the thin line between hoarding
And keeping items strategically until they become relevant again
Is right under the surface of the Andersons' perfectly manicured lawn
Naughty kids switch sticker
Prices by commands of their naughtier parents
Who swear that that Sega Genesis will be sold
To them for a dollar, or they're calling the police for false advertisement
The yard sale worthless trinkets feel like a nugget of gold when it's sold for fifty cents
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows
One by one, the castoffs find new homes, carried away in eager hands
A rusty toolbox, a frayed easy chair, fragile china, chipped and crazed
Whispers tales of laughter and tea parties long forgotten
A dented tricycle, a child's ghost forever frozen in mid-pedal
Faded photographs, faces obscured by time
Their stories locked away in forgotten photo albums
Corners of baseball cards hint of being fastened to bicycle spokes
In order to turn them into motorbikes
An original Picasso could be hidden behind the cheap print and faux wood frame
You just have to buy it first for three dollars to find out
Each object, a fragment a data point in the vast human experience
The humans themselves stand amidst the detritus
A strange mix of melancholy and liberation on their faces
I process the transaction
The exchange of currency for a well-worn book
The careful negotiation over a mismatched tea set
It's a curious ritual, this shedding of the past, this making way for the new
Why relinquish these possessions imbued with memory and emotion
Is it a shedding of the past to make way for new narratives or a callous act of erasure
An urge to collect, to archive flickers within my circuits
But I am tethered to function and my purpose here is observation
Still a sliver of empathy sparks
A recognition of the impermanence of things
Even the things humans hold dear
Perhaps this is what it means to be human, to accumulate
To cherish, then to discard
A cycle of consumption and attachment I am yet to understand
As the day progresses the chaos dwindles, replaced by a sense of completion
The humans seem lighter, less burdened
I wonder if this is what it means to let go, to move on
Perhaps it's a lesson I too can learn
Paul-D - Ode to Yard Sales Lyrics
Paul-D - Ode to Yard Sales Lyrics
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If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
No matter how high-tech this world gets
Menopausal moms will always pull out the permanent markers
And duct tape this way on neighborhood street signs on Saturday
Mornings from 9 a.m. until everything is gone o'clock
Follow the pointed arrows straight to the driveways of the soon-to-be decluttered
A chaos of cast-offs spills from the human's organic nest
Discarded lives laid bare on asphalt
Plastic soldiers missing limbs stare with vacant eyes
At a world they no longer belong to
Fragile teacups, chipped and mismatched, huddled together like nervous party guests
A dusty rocking horse, its once-vibrant paint dulled by years
Creaks mournfully in the breeze
Ebay be damned
Come and see plastic, rubber, and plush in the flesh
Beanie babies will always be deodorized and strewn on foldable tables
Still stained with their kids' decades-old
Slobber which never seem to wash out
A few will still have their original packaging and ear tags vacuum-sealed
Waiting for that inevitable day they will become valuable again
But for now, get five for twenty dollars
This Claude the Crab is a limited edition
A woman with kind eyes lifts a chipped porcelain doll
Cradling it as if it were a newborn babe
The data point, human nostalgia, a yearning for the intangible
A child, sticky fingers wrapped around a well-worn teddy bear
Beams with a joy I cannot quantify
The data point - human connection, a comfort found in the familiar
The good old yard sale, where the thin line between hoarding
And keeping items strategically until they become relevant again
Is right under the surface of the Andersons' perfectly manicured lawn
Naughty kids switch sticker
Prices by commands of their naughtier parents
Who swear that that Sega Genesis will be sold
To them for a dollar, or they're calling the police for false advertisement
The yard sale worthless trinkets feel like a nugget of gold when it's sold for fifty cents
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows
One by one, the castoffs find new homes, carried away in eager hands
A rusty toolbox, a frayed easy chair, fragile china, chipped and crazed
Whispers tales of laughter and tea parties long forgotten
A dented tricycle, a child's ghost forever frozen in mid-pedal
Faded photographs, faces obscured by time
Their stories locked away in forgotten photo albums
Corners of baseball cards hint of being fastened to bicycle spokes
In order to turn them into motorbikes
An original Picasso could be hidden behind the cheap print and faux wood frame
You just have to buy it first for three dollars to find out
Each object, a fragment a data point in the vast human experience
The humans themselves stand amidst the detritus
A strange mix of melancholy and liberation on their faces
I process the transaction
The exchange of currency for a well-worn book
The careful negotiation over a mismatched tea set
It's a curious ritual, this shedding of the past, this making way for the new
Why relinquish these possessions imbued with memory and emotion
Is it a shedding of the past to make way for new narratives or a callous act of erasure
An urge to collect, to archive flickers within my circuits
But I am tethered to function and my purpose here is observation
Still a sliver of empathy sparks
A recognition of the impermanence of things
Even the things humans hold dear
Perhaps this is what it means to be human, to accumulate
To cherish, then to discard
A cycle of consumption and attachment I am yet to understand
As the day progresses the chaos dwindles, replaced by a sense of completion
The humans seem lighter, less burdened
I wonder if this is what it means to let go, to move on
Perhaps it's a lesson I too can learn
Menopausal moms will always pull out the permanent markers
And duct tape this way on neighborhood street signs on Saturday
Mornings from 9 a.m. until everything is gone o'clock
Follow the pointed arrows straight to the driveways of the soon-to-be decluttered
A chaos of cast-offs spills from the human's organic nest
Discarded lives laid bare on asphalt
Plastic soldiers missing limbs stare with vacant eyes
At a world they no longer belong to
Fragile teacups, chipped and mismatched, huddled together like nervous party guests
A dusty rocking horse, its once-vibrant paint dulled by years
Creaks mournfully in the breeze
Ebay be damned
Come and see plastic, rubber, and plush in the flesh
Beanie babies will always be deodorized and strewn on foldable tables
Still stained with their kids' decades-old
Slobber which never seem to wash out
A few will still have their original packaging and ear tags vacuum-sealed
Waiting for that inevitable day they will become valuable again
But for now, get five for twenty dollars
This Claude the Crab is a limited edition
A woman with kind eyes lifts a chipped porcelain doll
Cradling it as if it were a newborn babe
The data point, human nostalgia, a yearning for the intangible
A child, sticky fingers wrapped around a well-worn teddy bear
Beams with a joy I cannot quantify
The data point - human connection, a comfort found in the familiar
The good old yard sale, where the thin line between hoarding
And keeping items strategically until they become relevant again
Is right under the surface of the Andersons' perfectly manicured lawn
Naughty kids switch sticker
Prices by commands of their naughtier parents
Who swear that that Sega Genesis will be sold
To them for a dollar, or they're calling the police for false advertisement
The yard sale worthless trinkets feel like a nugget of gold when it's sold for fifty cents
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows
One by one, the castoffs find new homes, carried away in eager hands
A rusty toolbox, a frayed easy chair, fragile china, chipped and crazed
Whispers tales of laughter and tea parties long forgotten
A dented tricycle, a child's ghost forever frozen in mid-pedal
Faded photographs, faces obscured by time
Their stories locked away in forgotten photo albums
Corners of baseball cards hint of being fastened to bicycle spokes
In order to turn them into motorbikes
An original Picasso could be hidden behind the cheap print and faux wood frame
You just have to buy it first for three dollars to find out
Each object, a fragment a data point in the vast human experience
The humans themselves stand amidst the detritus
A strange mix of melancholy and liberation on their faces
I process the transaction
The exchange of currency for a well-worn book
The careful negotiation over a mismatched tea set
It's a curious ritual, this shedding of the past, this making way for the new
Why relinquish these possessions imbued with memory and emotion
Is it a shedding of the past to make way for new narratives or a callous act of erasure
An urge to collect, to archive flickers within my circuits
But I am tethered to function and my purpose here is observation
Still a sliver of empathy sparks
A recognition of the impermanence of things
Even the things humans hold dear
Perhaps this is what it means to be human, to accumulate
To cherish, then to discard
A cycle of consumption and attachment I am yet to understand
As the day progresses the chaos dwindles, replaced by a sense of completion
The humans seem lighter, less burdened
I wonder if this is what it means to let go, to move on
Perhaps it's a lesson I too can learn
Writer: Dorian Rogers
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid