This song was partially inspired by this shirt which made me feel so calm and controlled….. an evening librarian who quietly hums while filing books alone.
But as you can see from the background, the feeling of control was only a dream. And one washing shrank the sleeves to halfway up my arms, transferring me from library to insane asylum.
And great…… it seems like the sounds gets weird at the higher parts but I still have zero idea how microphones & recording devices work. They are so complicated. Of course I should try to figure out how they work, but it seems so complex that there is really no hope of ever making progress in that realm. And so boring I could possibly die. I must be resigned to my fate and continue on. Just realize it sounds better in person & make adjustments in your imagination. Thanks!
Finally, a much needed song in which the King of the South defeats the King of the North in battle, or plans to anyway.
To live in a real life Stuffington’s Hall is a fantasy I dream of day and night- the coziest, stuffiest and most pompous home in the world, decorated mostly in shades of brown, filled with leather bound libraries, stone fireplaces, gleaming wood antiques owned by former presidents, and dark paintings of grumpy looking men framed in gold leaf. Or glorious paintings of triumphant generals crushing their enemies in battle.
Men, we will stand at the top of this hill; when we see them approach, we will swoop down and kill them. Their blood on our hands, we will lift them up high as the sparkling sun beams down from the sky.
Yankees they work hard, them Yankees they try, but November the 1st is the day that they die. Bless their sweet little hearts; rockaby in the grave. We will fight for the flame; and the flame we will save.
We are fire; they are ice- they will chill us no more. We will bury their bodies beneath the dance floor of Stuffington’s Hall. Please won’t you come, come to the ball?
Now there are two kings- there can be but one. He is King of the Ice; I am King of the Sun. He is sleek and so young; I dumpy and old. He has made it clear he wants my story to never be told.
From my leather bound books, he would smudge out the ink with his fingers in gloves made of synthetic mink. Though his men are alright (and they’re armed to the gills), we know God is with us- trapped in the nook of our frills.
So don your gray lace ladies, don your silk hats. Twirl round the fruit punch that bubbles in vats. Tweet, tweet so high- puffing like cotton upon our blue sky.
We are joy; they are tears. We are hopes; they are fears. It is us who predates them by hundreds of years.
Old fingers, bold fingers, gold fingers- me! I am the ruler of all that I see. And I see stars languishing behind their cold metal bars.
Old fingers, gold fingers, bold fingers- wait! Til they reach the valley, then don’t hesitate- swooping down in a wall, and then join me for a dance in Stuffington’s Hall.
