Testo Crooked bones Pete Francis

Crooked bones

A plastic bag and an empty cart
Is all that's left of a lonely heart
That once was carved into a park bench
In Father Demo's square

Cars drive by like schools of fish
Turn a blind headlight to those who wish
They can swim to a shore where the moonlight
Glistens in their soft and silver hair

A compact mirror. the glass is broken
In the middle of a subway token
Is a muttered whisper softly spoken of what you used to own
Now all that's left is your crooked bones

Crooked bones, crooked bones
Every one of us has grown
Crooked bones, crooked bones
Live in houses made of stones

Down below old Minetta Street
There runs an ancient quiet stream
There's a few who know beneath their feet
It dreams a quiet love
Under spray epitaphs and cryptic signs and cement slabs
Adheres the cries and screams and laughs of the revelers above

While pedestrians and private hells
Denied the paradise of bells
Can hear the bubbling wishing well
That tells you, you are home
All they hear is the crooked bones

Crooked bones, crooked bones
Every one of us has grown
Crooked bones, crooked bones
Live in houses made of stones

Now late at night you can hear the roars
Of garbage trucks likes dinosaurs
Howling from the distant shores of 7th avenue

Sirens scream with all their might
Across the airwaves of the night
And beamed as if by satellite into your own bedroom

And they resonate in me
Magnetic rhyming imagery
Whose sounds again makes clear to me
What I have always known
I love every one of your crooked bones

Crooked bones, crooked bones
Every one of us has grown
Crooked bones, crooked bones
Live in houses made of stone