Speaking In Tongues
Guided by Voices
Fake to the Bone
It's hard to be a Russian in a strange place,
So hard to smell of sweat and see their faces
That turn away before you say a word.
It's hard to be a lonely girl who dances
To some unheard imaginery verses
That call to leave this place and get aboard.
I'm used to be an immigrant, a stranger,
A tiny little animal, who never
Gets lost when hit, or cries when thrown away.
But when it's dark, I stumble in the kitchen,
I fall upon my knees, and then I'm catching
The shadow of the hot and sleepy day.
* * *
Blow the candle, blow that horn,
For tonight you're on your own.
Hold your horses, hold your tears,
Face the coming lonesome years.
This is why the pain is dumb,
And my heart is slightly numb,
For I knew it all before.
He's not coming back no more.