There's a lit-up bathtub Mary in the front yard
of the house her mother left her, making faces
at the passing cars. There's an angel made of plastic
standing in the attic, dusty and dogmatic.
I remember those hassock pews made her kneecaps
bruise through her sunday dress. Bless this mess, I'm through.
She sold the car but kept the gasoline to torch the house.
She couldn't keep it clean.
There's no ceiling to my grieving, so if we're
even then I'm leaving.
Packed light. Been wrong. Long nights and bitter songs.
No favours, no saviours. The luxuries that make this scary.
The shotgun side of a thumb-hitched ride,
tearing westward out of Weary.
Countless wasted minutes. Our limbs and all their limits.
Vigil candles near the curtains.
Bandage all abrasions. A saint for all occasions.
Strike a match and burn our burdens.
There's no ceiling to my grieving, so if we're
even then I'm leaving.
Packed light. Been wrong. Long nights and bitter songs.
No favours, no saviours. The luxuries that make this scary.
The shotgun side of a thumb hitched ride,
tearing westward out of Weary.
Believing, or just breathing.
If we're even I'm leaving.
supported by 4 fans who also own “Lit-Up Bathtub Mary”
This fucking band is an instant classic. Every song is amazing, each of their albums have a ton of hits that should be chart toppers. Sounds like Sublime and the Flatliners. Curtis Unger
Adopting an optimistic, genre-fluid mindset atypical to most contemporary punk rock, the Aussies rage against the machine with glee. Bandcamp New & Notable May 2, 2024
Specializing in bright, sunny "bedroom rock español," this Brooklyn singer-songwriter puts a unique spin on lo-fi music. Bandcamp New & Notable Jan 18, 2024