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Owen Pallett
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Oh Heartland, Up Yours!
The stars collected
Each world accounted for
Freed all the children
Seems there is nothing more
If I only had a rowboat I would row it up to heaven
And if heaven would not have me I would take the other option
I will seek out my own satisfaction
From the wine lying the bedroom
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness
They will feign an expression of sadness
A called cattle-nation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus
On the pitch of the avenue grasses
I will sing sing sing to the masses
Oh Heartland, up yours
The hollow voice of
Of fourteenth century
Too much assumption to be taken seriously
On the road like a Disney kid in cutoffs and a beater
With a feathered fringe, it doesn't suit a simonia greeter
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Doesn't work doesn't fly doesn't handle
From the wine lying the bedroom
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness
They will feign an expression of sadness
A called cattle-nation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus
On the pitch of the avenue grasses
I will sing sing sing to the masses
Oh Heartland, up yours
(Oh violent lent violent lent violent lent)
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
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