Can’t remember anything at allInflamed trees line the streetsCan’t remember anything at allBut I’m driving my car down to GenevaI been sitting in my basement patioAye it was hot up aboveGirls walk past, the roses all in bloomHave you ever heard the Higgs Boson Blues?I’m going down to Geneva, babyGonna teach it to youWho cares? Who cares what the future brings?Black road long and I drove and droveAnd came upon a crossroadThe night was hot and blackI see Robert Johnson with 10-dollar guitarStrapped to his back looking for ?Well here comes LuciferWith his canon law and a hundred black babiesRunning from his genocidal jawHe got the real killer grooveRobert Johnson and the devil, manDon’t know who is gonna rip off whoDriving my car, inflamed trees on fireSitting and singing the Higgs Boson BluesI’m tired, I’m looking for a spot to dropAll the clocks have stoppedIn Memphis nowIn the Lorraine Motel, it’s hot, it’s hotThat’s why they call it the Hot SpotI’ll take a room with a viewHear a man preaching in a language that’s completely newMaking the hot cocks in the flophouse bleedWhile the cleaning ladies sob into their mopsAnd a bellhop hops and bopsA shot rings out to a spiritual grooveEverybody bleeding to that Higgs Boson BluesIf I die tonight, bury meIn my favorite yellow patent leather shoesWith a mummified cat and a ??That the ?? forced on the JewsCan you feel my heartbeat?Can you feel my heartbeat?Hannah Montana does the African SavannahAs the simulated rainy season beginsShe curses the queue at the ZulusAnd moves on to AmazoniaAnd cries with the dolphinsMama ate the pygmyThe pygmy ate the monkeyThe monkey has a gift that he is sending back to youLook here comes the missionaryWith his smallpox and fluHe’s saving them, the savagesWith the Higgs Boson BluesI’m driving my car down to GenevaI’m driving my car down to GenevaOh let the damn day breakThe rainy days always make me sadMiley Cyrus floats in a swimming pool in Toluca LakeAnd you’re the best girl I’ve ever hadCan’t remember anything at all
if I were to use that threadbare metaphor of albums being like children, then Push The Sky Away is the ghost-baby in the incubator and Warren’s loops are its tiny, trembling heart-beat.
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