Lunar Math EP

by Jacob Butcher

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Each of these three songs is from a different upcoming album. They were recorded and made to sound decent by Adam Miller.


released November 19, 2012


tags: folk Spokane



Jacob Butcher Spokane, Washington

Born in Spokane. Works, sings, writes, studies, plays.

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Track Name: Libby
Libby's high on this LA freeway
With her radio turned off,
Drifting into the shoulder.
These summers get so hot.

Overturned in the gravel,
She's sleeping like a stone
That broke the front porch window.
Scared kids scatter home.

You can't sing like those birds on the wire,
'Course you can drink like a drunk in a choir.

Men tonight would've held her
Face into the bed.
Now she's pinned in the wreckage,
She's safer here instead.

Her broken bell starts ringing,
But the harmony is lost,
There's dissonance in the peal,
And vomit on the walk.

You can hear the clamor clear across the town.
And every town has built a tower for this sound.

Ring a ring o' roses,
A bottle full of poses,
Struck fast like a book of matches
While the rain is coming down.
Track Name: Lunar Math
We were getting lost,
Just running through the maze of hotel halls, waiting for lift-off.
I busted on the scene,
And out into the Cape Canaveral heat.
Our days had numbers, god I could feel it then.

The four of us asleep
And drifting off so far on out to sea; we rose in the nighttime.
Painted black and white,
The lack of color burning out our eyes.
And we saw our home: a shining coin in the sky.

Faith is math out here.
Our throats were sore from swallowing our tears.
And we buckled up and laced our fingers tight.
And the engines threw us hard like pitching a ball.
We were kids and lonely transients out in the dark.
Then we closed our eyes and pretended that we would be caught.
Track Name: Saint Christopher
Blood on the sidewalk, Sunday shoes,
Dead before we got the news.
The dance hall sign on the side of the road said,
“Everyone dies with the blues.”

When word came down to the shop,
Pa dropped his wrench and fell to his knees.
His shaking hands all caked with oil,
All black with the blood of the beast.

Oh Christopher, Saint of the road,
My brother is a body that's broken.
Our piss in the wind for a prayer,
A puff of black smoke in the air.

He laid all limp and lifeless out in
The street at the foot of the hill,
While the straight-six Ford sat silent
With his golden hair stuck in the grill.

Saint Christopher, where did you go?
You left such a weight on our shoulders.
The weather is storming outside,
The devil is learning to drive.

My old man died at his own hand,
Weak from the guilt of his trade,
And I am left to pick these up:
The ratchet along with the spade.