zephyr
The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries
The lonesome organ grinder cries
You are wearing a light jacket, and if that isn't evidence that you're a born and bred Torcher Mort knows what is. Because it's not cold, not by any normal person's standards, but to an islander like you? Downright nippy, and you're not super thrilled about being out in it. Doesn't help that it's overcast and smells like incoming rain. Also doesn't help that you're not super close from home, doing a task you'd rather not be caught doing.
So when Nate stands up you briefly consider turning tail and running back home, except that would definitely be much worse. Instead you stop along the path, letting him saunter out like some sort of unpleasantly large garden gnome and come to loom in front of you, seeming positively cherubic were it not for, y'know, his face. "Hmm," is your noncommittal reply, squinting skeptically at the storm clouds that darken the horizon. "A good day for gettin' th'fuck inside, maybe. Yer taller half around?"
So when Nate stands up you briefly consider turning tail and running back home, except that would definitely be much worse. Instead you stop along the path, letting him saunter out like some sort of unpleasantly large garden gnome and come to loom in front of you, seeming positively cherubic were it not for, y'know, his face. "Hmm," is your noncommittal reply, squinting skeptically at the storm clouds that darken the horizon. "A good day for gettin' th'fuck inside, maybe. Yer taller half around?"
The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you
