Gonna dig me a hole.
Just a basement below,
underneath Weary Ontario.
Oh, the fortunes in coal and
dead canaries in cages I found
at the bottom. I'm proud
when I look at the dirt on
my hands. Holding my heart;
I heard that you started a band.
Well here I am. You can stamp my hand.
Yeah I dig that song. Been digging
way too long, but here I am forcing my
funny face back into the plaster again.
Pushing bullets and blades through
the backs of my kith and kin.
Throwing stones. Skin and bones.
Speed of sound wore me down.
Yet something shakes this town.
Have you heard what they're calling
the 'Weary Hum'? Well I think that
I know where it's coming from.
A combination of things: the wattage
pushed out of an open-grill bass rig and
the resonant thump of a well-tuned, well-worn
dead wood kick drum. And
here I am. Either trapped in the back
of an old burning panel van, or
alone in the ground waiting up
for a helping hand. Feed a lie to me.
Tied to me now, and pulling me up.
Built in Weary, broke by honest hands.
Broken down with an ear to the ground.
Pull me up.
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