Yok Yine

No Questions

Crazy Machine

Found

Overseas is a sentimental slow throwback to a simpler time when international travel was possible and
love was complicated. Late night text battles, missed communication, love, betrayal, and peepin shorties
make the new release from psych-O-positive the silky groove we all need right now.
“This belongs on the radio.” — Ivan Julian.

Overseas

This is yet another brand new song.  It turned out to be a little more than I envisioned.  It's not filler.  In fact. . . .  Well, I like it anyway.  The style is a little different than some of the more recent stuff.  I would call this blues Rock.  My influence for this type of genre would be Blues Traveler, Counting Crows, Black Crowes . . . any number of others.  This is a first version, so I'm sure some of it may change later after I've listened to it a few thousand times.

Lyrics:

I’ll bet I know how I must look to you.                                          
I’ll bet I know how I must look to you.

                       
Hair exploding from my head
Like frayed copper wire.
Ragged Clothes bare of thread.
And ten years out of style.

Every time you step out your door
And look across the road,
I’m sitting on my porch swing here
And smoking like a stove.

I’ll bet I know how I must look to you.
I bet you haven’t thought how you must look to me.

I saw your son at the bus stop yesterday.
With a mean Frozen grin on his face.
		Kids in colorful winter coats
		All except for one.

		He wears a thin cloth jacket stained and frayed.
		His hair a tangled and oily disarray. 
		He said nothing to anyone.
		Stood in the rain and stared.

You might know him.  He lives just up the street.
In the house with the yard that’s gone to seed.
His mother left them two months ago
For better company.

Your boy smacked him across the face
He fell with a heavy thud.
Dumped the contents of his bag
And ground it in the mud.

This boy is me
Your son is just like you.

Ch:
Microcosm of humanity
On our little street, well
No one’s good but we’re not bad.
No one’s happy but some are sad.

All have eyes trained to the sky, and we’re screaming,  Ah!
“Please don’t hate me I’m not a saint.
“I’m just fumbling through my days.”
“Trying not to screw this up and failing.”

The little white house across the road
Sitting facing me.
An older lady once lived alone.
She was sixty-three.

Never saw any visitors there
Not even holidays.
About eleven years ago.
She up and passed away.

That brick house to the left just there
With Trump signs in the yard.
Lives a preacher who drives a truck.
His name is Bill Bernard.

He spends all his time on the road
His wife just sits at home
Many men come to run the train
The moment he is gone.

No one tells him
Hell, not even me.

Chorus 2


I’ll bet I know what you must think of me.
I’m not the fool you seem to think I am.
I’m not the fool you seem to think I am.

This is closer than I ever want to be.
Don’t give a damn what you must think of me.

Crazy Machine

Brad Teyler