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lyrics

A call on the telephone
may seem unnatural,
but it’s the best that we can do sometimes.

It’s becoming all the time;
slowly, but soon, all the time.

And I call you on the telephone,
and you don’t pick up;
does that mean that you’re already home?

And I call you on the telephone,
and you don’t pick up anymore.

Calling all those
who have big ideas;
all you lovable Liberals
and your fascist friends:

go on our TV,
show us where
the unwashed masses hurt your windows;

just try and
take us back
to Stockholm.

I know your head is a desert;
I know you’re “one of a kind.”

It’s becoming noticable;
slowly, but soon, noticable.

And I call you on the telephone,
and you don’t pick up;
but I know that you’re already home.

But you know, there are those of us
who have broken hearts;
we, the unwashed masses
at our dead ends.

We’ll turn off our TV,
take back
the factory,

and never go back
to Stockholm.

I know you’re not in the desert;
I know you’re not in my mind.

credits

from A Place That Doesn’t Exist, released April 22, 2019

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Cannonball Statman Antarctica

NYC native / traveling musician and multimedia artist.

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