I break horses They seem to come to me Asking to be broken They seem to run to me I break horses Doesn’t take me long Just a few well-placed words And their wandering hearts are gone
At first her warmth felt good between my legs Living breathing heart-beating flesh But soon that warmth turned to an itch Turned to a scratch Turned to a gash I break horses I don’t tend to them
Tonight I’m swimming to my favorite island And I don’t want to see you swimming behind Tonight I’m swimming to my favorite island And I don’t want to see you swimming behind No I break horses I don’t tend to them
Hangedup plays battle hymns for shut-ins, tightrope walkers, and urban bicyclists. Hangedup channels dead Roma musicians from Slavic republics. Hangedup plays East European folk tunes backwards, skipping every 3rd note. Hangedup writes road songs for model train enthusiasts. Hangedup composes soundtracks for slow-motion automobile accidents. They also use leaded gasoline every chance they get.
Sometimes soaring, occasionally distressing, Hangedup are the sound of tomorrow, only tomorrow was this morning, just before you left the house. And you left the stove on.