Me and the vivid girl
in our hammock to the stars
staring into the fire before TV,
the remote-control’s on Mars

In the dope of the pigment,
in the poetic state of mind
in a flood of country
we lay down to kill some time

And we spoke languidly
of the Northern Bee
and collecting dewdrops for tea
underneath the cannonball tree

We were high,
we were sherpa-high,
we conspired against old friends
we said we must be friends or die
and we’ve died a thousand times
since then

And we spoke long, at length
of the fight or flee
and of nothing in particularly
underneath the cannonball tree

We spoke off-handedly
of new extremes
and of nothing in particularly
underneath the cannonball tree

We’re at the point
where we love or hate it
we can write it down
and obliterate it
when we’re at the point
when we neither love nor hate it
we can lay down
and obliterate it

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Posted in The Tragically Hip, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , .

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