Out of a gunny-sack fall red rabbits.

Mr. Beckett's most recent Saturday Night Music Club featured a number by the Shins, and after hearing it, loving it, and searching the Shins on imeem, I found this gem of lyrical fabulosity. I know it's utter nonsense. I feel like Alice in Wonderland listening to it. Yet somehow it makes so much sense. Every last word rings true. The percussion is what drew me in at first, though; it looks like caves with stalactites dropping rainbow tears into glittering pools. Don't you see it? All right, all right, maybe I'm having a crazy synaesthesia moment. Sorry. But listen anyway; it's a brilliant song!

Hurled to the center of the Earth again,
The place where it's hot, love,
You know, it hurts to breathe in,
And the watershed you balance on is begging it,
Well did he ever know,
Will he ever know?

The trees in the moonshine are a dark lattice,
So you catalog in the angle you notice,
In a vacuum you are charged to record this,
So you won't make it easy on me.

I can't go into this no more,
It puts too many thorns on my mind,
And the necessary balloon lies a corpse on the floor,
We've pissed on far too many sprites,
And they're all standing up for their rights.

Born on a desert floor, you've the deepest thirst,
And you came to my sweet shore to indulge it,
With the warm and dreaming eyes of an orphan,
But there is not enough,
There is not enough.

Out of a gunnysack fall red rabbits,
Into the crucible to be rendered an emulsion,
And we can't allow a chance they'd restore themselves,
So we can't make it easy on you.

Undaunted, you bathed in hollow cries,
The boys with swollen, sunburnt eyes,
A reward for letting nothing under their skin,
So help me, I don't know, I might,
Just give the old dark side a try.

Don't cast your whirling eyes on the shore
‘til we even the score.
I still owe you for the hole in the floor,
And the ghost in the hall,
Who decides who paddles over the falls?
Yeah, who makes the call,
Who makes the call?

I know there's an eventual
Release from every scale of crime,
But the necessary balloon lies a corpse on the floor,
We've pissed on far too many good intentions held by clever sprites,
And they're all standing up for their rights.