(blank) from Mother by Drew Danburry

there's a humble abode, in a heart that you know.
philosophize for me, I'm not surprised.
you sell yourself so short, a pair of pretty eyes.
you got a love for ladies tresses, demure distresses are the least,
of all your appellative problems, revolving round your apple cheeks.
you run the humble side of high wires, within the profession of defeat;
the grating screeching sound, of Roman Candle Winters.
and skirlish treachery.
slow motion bullets come on strong, transient trills as they traipse along,
it's all ahoy or anchors boys, it's no mirage.
and all the ghosts we're running from, well they'll keep on.
white wine and catheters, a lonely lock that's glazed with ice,
we make the world just what we want, we forge low valleys lit by night,
so make this moment to remember ‘cause I'm not yours to hold or keep
you'll never claim me.
you'll never hold no claim to me.

• Folk
• Mother
• drew danburry
• genre hopping
• independent music
• indie pop
• indie rock
• kickass kindergarten folk
• mother ep
• shoegaze
• Baltimore