My Seventh Rib - the Shins

Your silver tongue laughs at the clowns of our age

A slow production line of cheap-shots from both sides

Shot from the hip to my seventh rib

A spoiled tomato lies in all that you say

And I was the last of us to know

Sound the alarm for my sentimental ways

Have come in view and we’ve all got our own knives

Sold to the worst of the devils we know

Our mind and tight skin will soon be old

But this wasn’t meant for us to know

Youth’s open shutters

Give way to another

Taken by slight of hand

And every American has the mouth of a pelican

Now can I share that pillow with you love?

They’ve got us in fits to find a way out

Of this exploded view of a life once so simple

First with the curse that my sentimental ways

Are drawing my innocence to a close

And these were not meant for me to know