Standard (EADGBE)

What the hell is this?

 You said, "It's art, just fucking mirror it."

 Where did we go wrong?

 If not here, where do we belong?

 In a shot of sun off an airplane far above her?

 In the glint of a foot-burnished manhole cover?

 In a light, a sign of one kind or another?

 In the gleaming eye of a fighter or a lover?

 Sitting here at the Hortons,

 so you know this is important.

 If not here, then where?

 If not now, then when?

 When a feather's an immovable force?

 When the stampede's an obstacle course?

 When Ancient Train has hit Ol' Transient Horse?

 When we're a Vancouver divorce?

Now that we've hammered the last spike

and we've punched the railroad through,

thought there'd be more to say,

thought there'd be more to do.

I love your paintings -- don't take your colours away.

I've grown more fearful of them every day.

Swimming up their dark rivers to discover your source,

a source of strange and unrequited remorse.

And I found the end of the world, of course,

but it's not the end of the world, of course.

It's just a Vancouver divorce.

It's just a Vancouver divorce.