Love songs are where we get our passion, our soul — and most of our worst ideas. Nothing good can come of this. Throughout human history, oceans have been crossed, mountains have been scaled, and great families have blossomed — all because of a few simple chords and a melody that inflamed a heart and propelled it on a noble, romantic mission. On the other hand, that time you told that girl you just started seeing that you would catch a grenade for her? You did that because of a love song. And it wasn't exactly a coincidence that she suddenly decided to lose your number and move back to Milwaukee to figure some stuff out. You know? And L. And yeah, my mom.
I sleep in late another day oh what a wonder oh what a waste. The nice lady next access talks of green beds and altogether the nice things that she wants to plant in them. I wanna grow tomatoes on the front steps. Sunflowers, bean sprouts, sweet corn after that radishes.
The little one sleeps in its cot, I lift the gauze and air a long time, and silently argument away flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl aim aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the acme. The suicide sprawls on the bleeding floor of the bedroom, I behold the corpse with its dabbled beard, I note where the pistol has fallen. The big doors of the country barn stand open and about to, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The absolve light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one lap reclined on the other, I be frightened from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll advance over heels and tangle my beard full of wisps. The Yankee boat is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend by her prow or shout joyously as of the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open aerate in the far west, the bride was a red girl, Her member of the clergy and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large broad blankets hanging from their shoulders, Arrange a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride as a result of the hand, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her abrasive straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.