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<pre><font size='+2'>JANE WHITFIELD IS DEAD lyrics THOUGHT INDUSTRY</font><br>[I) July 10th, 1993]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Jane`s clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel<br />
<br />
sheets. Inane lush that can`t decide, but I`m snared<br />
<br />
here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can`t<br />
<br />
escape. I weep here`s something that can never change.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and<br />
<br />
sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I<br />
<br />
never asked these things, because Jane`s now dead.<br />
<br />
Jane`s found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed.<br />
<br />
Hoard of locust mad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
[II) September 17th, 1995]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream<br />
<br />
wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor<br />
<br />
near. "I do," and I promise on the bottle lover`s grave.<br />
<br />
She sighs, "our timeless loyalty is branded change."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and<br />
<br />
wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage;<br />
<br />
but we`re not a sexist pair. Because Jane`s now dead.<br />
<br />
Because Jane`s been dead. Because Jane`s found dead,<br />
<br />
long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom<br />
<br />
sad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I`ll mourn her softly<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
[III) May 3rd, 2043]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge<br />
<br />
with daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My<br />
<br />
gramps` ponies. She`ll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to<br />
<br />
raise a family. She`ll shit. I bet. We`ll grow old<br />
<br />
together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on<br />
<br />
tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and<br />
<br />
watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We`ll gum<br />
<br />
sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She`ll shit a<br />
<br />
brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She`ll shit.<br />
<br />
I bet. To see us when we`re ninety, sleeping in on church<br />
<br />
sunday. Playing our dated CD`s that we bought in my<br />
<br />
twenties.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
[IV) January 25th, 2051]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This marriage is make believe. Now I`m crying on<br />
<br />
her body as she passed away without me, and left me this<br />
<br />
bitter old man; because Jane`s now dead, because Jane`s<br />
<br />
been dead. Because Jane`s found dead. My wife`s now<br />
<br />
dead. My wife`s found dead. Jane`s left dead.<br><br><a href='http://www.lyricsbay.com' target='_blank'>LyricsBay</a> | <a href="http://www.lyricsbay.com/jane_whitfield_is_dead_lyrics-thought_industry.html" target='_blank'>JANE WHITFIELD IS DEAD lyrics THOUGHT INDUSTRY</a></pre>

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[I) July 10th, 1993]

Jane`s clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel

sheets. Inane lush that can`t decide, but I`m snared

here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can`t

escape. I weep here`s something that can never change.

This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and

sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I

never asked these things, because Jane`s now dead.

Jane`s found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed.

Hoard of locust mad.

[II) September 17th, 1995]

Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream

wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor

near. "I do," and I promise on the bottle lover`s grave.

She sighs, "our timeless loyalty is branded change."

This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and

wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage;

but we`re not a sexist pair. Because Jane`s now dead.

Because Jane`s been dead. Because Jane`s found dead,

long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom

sad.

I`ll mourn her softly

[III) May 3rd, 2043]

A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge

with daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My

gramps` ponies. She`ll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to

raise a family. She`ll shit. I bet. We`ll grow old

together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on

tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and

watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We`ll gum

sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She`ll shit a

brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She`ll shit.

I bet. To see us when we`re ninety, sleeping in on church

sunday. Playing our dated CD`s that we bought in my

twenties.

[IV) January 25th, 2051]

This marriage is make believe. Now I`m crying on

her body as she passed away without me, and left me this

bitter old man; because Jane`s now dead, because Jane`s

been dead. Because Jane`s found dead. My wife`s now

dead. My wife`s found dead. Jane`s left dead.

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