At the end of the war, as the bodies piled up in the mass graves, a young man could often be found on the outskirts of town, searching the faces of the dead. In his hand was always clutched a letter. A letter he hoped he never had to leave for his first love, who left him alone on Christmas Island.
You told me that the scar on your lip
Was to remind you,
Every feast should taste a little bit like blood,
But you never told me why.
Oh, I meant to tell you I loved you,
But it’d just sound naïve,
I believed, so I’d save it for another time.
Love won’t pan out anyhow
But how can they say that all this is fake
When it’s feeling so real to me now?
You were the first girl that gave me a chance,
When that was all that I asked,
You pulled me out of the slums I dwelled in alone.
And the posters that hung in your room
Were the bands I liked too,
And all I want is
To watch them through the darkness,
And listen to your heart kiss my cheek,
As you sleep under me.
How’s that for high school poetry?
You told me that you’d give me a call,
And now I’m stuck with
Imagining every single word I’d say
If it’d just ring fucking ONCE.
Oh I’m used to messing things up,
But now I feel cheated
If you’re gone and I’m not, where the hell is my shot at
Ruining something between us?
And I had planned out our wedding before we had our first date,
And fuck, I know it was stupid, but I just tend to get carried away
With any thought that can take me out of this place
And mark my words,
Detroit will weep for you.
Dear first love,
I guess this is how I’m saying goodbye.
I leave you a prayer and a promise,
In this town all monsters must hang for their crimes.
He better hope they didn’t leave him alive.
And if God survived he’ll give me a chance,
Because that’s all that I ask,
So mark my words Dalton
Detroit will not weep for you.
The Rat Song
The Traveling Show