You get this guy doing “Lorna Zauberberg”. Thankfully, he’s pretty good. I’ve been ever so in love with this song since Sad Man Happy Man came out. I’ve periodically checked YouTube since we saw Doughty live back in October, to no avail.
So, check out this guy, Bryce Arthur Hogland, according to his YouTube, covering Mike Doughty’s “Lorna Zauberberg”.
Wait for your train in my car by the station, on the wheel my hands are burning from the cold. What do you dream as you doze against the window and will you tell the dream when you come home?
Virility is in the house of lesser than and in breakfast we get by on charm alone. The sun beats down on immaculate beige carpets and the plank of spoons bounce off the off-white walls.
I flipped through the music that you left, all the old cassettes that lean against the wall. I ate all the peaches off the shelf and I rearranged the cans into a poem.
Vicious mobs of candy-ravers stalk the night and Methadonians sleep right where they stand. A weeping tranny is cradling a steak knife and you’re happily slugging Rob Royswith your man. (Side note: Think Doughty’s lived in NYC too long?)
I fold all the sweaters in the drawer and I smelled your smell and I held one to my nose. Lay awake to the drizzle on window as the swan neck of the fan sweeps back and forth.
It’s almost the weekend, people. This is all I got.
So, check out this guy, Bryce Arthur Hogland, according to his YouTube, covering Mike Doughty’s “Lorna Zauberberg”.
Wait for your train in my car by the station, on the wheel my hands are burning from the cold. What do you dream as you doze against the window and will you tell the dream when you come home?
Virility is in the house of lesser than and in breakfast we get by on charm alone. The sun beats down on immaculate beige carpets and the plank of spoons bounce off the off-white walls.
I flipped through the music that you left, all the old cassettes that lean against the wall. I ate all the peaches off the shelf and I rearranged the cans into a poem.
Vicious mobs of candy-ravers stalk the night and Methadonians sleep right where they stand. A weeping tranny is cradling a steak knife and you’re happily slugging Rob Royswith your man. (Side note: Think Doughty’s lived in NYC too long?)
I fold all the sweaters in the drawer and I smelled your smell and I held one to my nose. Lay awake to the drizzle on window as the swan neck of the fan sweeps back and forth.
It’s almost the weekend, people. This is all I got.
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