Garage Sale. Saturday. I need to pay
my heart's outstanding bills.
A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch, some plastic daffodils.
The cutlery and coffee cups I stole
from all-night restaurants, a sense of wonder (only slightly used),
a year or two to haunt you in the dark.
For a phone call from far away
with a "Hi, how are you today"
and a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
A wage-slave forty-hour work week (weighs
a thousand kilograms, so bend your knees)
comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands,
the cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17,
a puke-green sofa
and the outline to a complicated dream of dignity.
For a laugh too loud and too long
For a place where awkward belongs
And a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
For the broken ones.
Or best offer.
The Weakerthans - Everything Must Go Lyrics
The Weakerthans - Everything Must Go Lyrics
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Garage Sale. Saturday. I need to pay
my heart's outstanding bills.
A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch, some plastic daffodils.
The cutlery and coffee cups I stole
from all-night restaurants, a sense of wonder (only slightly used),
a year or two to haunt you in the dark.
For a phone call from far away
with a "Hi, how are you today"
and a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
A wage-slave forty-hour work week (weighs
a thousand kilograms, so bend your knees)
comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands,
the cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17,
a puke-green sofa
and the outline to a complicated dream of dignity.
For a laugh too loud and too long
For a place where awkward belongs
And a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
For the broken ones.
Or best offer.
my heart's outstanding bills.
A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch, some plastic daffodils.
The cutlery and coffee cups I stole
from all-night restaurants, a sense of wonder (only slightly used),
a year or two to haunt you in the dark.
For a phone call from far away
with a "Hi, how are you today"
and a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
A wage-slave forty-hour work week (weighs
a thousand kilograms, so bend your knees)
comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands,
the cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17,
a puke-green sofa
and the outline to a complicated dream of dignity.
For a laugh too loud and too long
For a place where awkward belongs
And a sign recovery comes to the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
To the broken ones.
For the broken ones.
Or best offer.
Writer: John K Samson, Stephen Carroll, Jason Tait, John P. Sutton
Copyright: Lyrics © MOTHERSHIP MUSIC PUBLISHING
Copyright: Lyrics © MOTHERSHIP MUSIC PUBLISHING