And tin pots screaming,
from the smell.
And old goats dreaming,
from the yell.
Your powder stockings,
bulging out.
And Parker Williams,
holding dead trout.
In the bottom sins of sea,
holding grace in a sack,
in a broken muddy sky,
sits a picker with a bent plow back,
bury your knives and flowers,
with your face, and horse, and gun,
ship ‘em to the next barn,
with your chair,
and corn and your rum.
And ring that bell,
ring that bell,
ring that bell,
ring that bell.
And black coat shadows,
dogs on a chain.
Tulips weepin’,
to keep ‘em tame.
Your long gone medicine,
for autumn’s gray.
The whistling moon,
smells of a rain.
And the rusty nails are stacked,
with a preacher headin’ east,
his bullet proof spin,
he’s calling Memphis to get released,
he’s shakin’ all your jewelry,
no love in stormy sea,
you’ve got a business with a problem,
hiding Gideon’s for pain and relief.
And ring that bell,
ring that bell,
ring that bell,
ring that bell.
This Nashville trio make ultra-catchy indie rock (in the '90s sense of the term) with taut musicianship and a freewheeling spirit. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 2, 2021