Karaoké Poets The Tragically Hip

Spring starts when a heartbeat's poundin'

When the birds can be heard above the reckonin' carts doin' some final accountin'

Lava flowin' in

Superfarmer's direction

He's been gettin' reprieve from the heat in the frozen food section

Yeah

Don't tell me what the poets are doin'

Don't tell me that they're talkin' tough

Don't tell me that they're anti-social

Somehow not anti-social enough

That's right

And porn speaks to its splintered legions

To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions

Yeah

While aimin' at the archetypal father

He said with such broad and tentative swipes

Why do you even bother

Yeah

Don't tell me what the poets are doin'

Those Himalayas of the mind

Don't tell me what the poets been doin' in the long grasses over time

Don't tell me what the poets are doin' on the street and the epitome of vague

Don't tell me how the universe is altered when you find out how he gets paid alright

If there's nothin' more that you need now

The lawn cut by bare-breasted women

Beach bleached towels within reach for the women

Gotta make it

That'll make it by swimmin'