Leaving La Lyrics - Father John Misty

I was living on the hill 

By the water tower and hiking trails 

When the big one hit I'd have a seat 

To watch masters abandon their dogs and dogs run free 

O baby it's time to leave 

Take the van and the hearse down to New Orleans 

Leave under the gaze of the billboard queens 

5 foot chicks with parted lips selling sweatshop jeans 

These L.A. phonies and their Pitchfork bands 

Sound like dollar signs and Amy Grant 

So reads the pulled quote from my last cover piece 

Entitled "The Oldest Man in Folk Rock Speaks" 

You can hear it all over the airwaves 

The manufactured gasp of the final days 

Someone should tell them 'bout the time that they don't have 

To praise the glorious future and the hopeless past 

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A few things the songwriter needs 

Arrows of Love, a mask of Tragedy 

But if you want ecstasy or birth control 

Just run the tap until the water's cold 

Anything else you can get online 

A creation myth or a .45 

You're going to need one or the other to survive 

Where only the armed or the funny make it out alive Mara taunts me 'neath the tree 

She's like, "Oh great, that's just what we all need 

Another white guy in 2017 

Who takes himself terribly seriously" 

She's not far off, the strange thing is 

That's pretty much what I thought when I started this 

It took me all my life to learn to the play the G 

But the role of Oedipus was a total breeze 

Photos 

But still I dreamed of garnering on rave reviews 

Just believably little north of God's own truth 

He's a national treasure now, and here's the proof 

In the form of his major label debut 

A little less human with each release 

Closing the gap between the mask and me 

I swear I'd never do this, but is it okay 

Don't want to be that guy but it's my birthday 

If everything ends with the photo then I'm on my way 

Ohhh-ho-o-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh 

I watched my old guards all collapse 

Blow away more violence than my cartoon past 

It's like my father said before he croaked 

"Son, you're killing me, that's all folks." 

So why is it I'm so distraught 

That what I'm selling is getting bought 

At some point you just can't control 

What people use your fake name for So I never learned to play the lead guitar (clearly) 

I always more preferred the speaking parts 

Besides there's always someone willing to 

Fill up the spaces that I couldn't use 

Nonetheless, I've been practicing my whole life 

Washing dishes, playing drums, and getting by 

Until I figured, if I'm here then I just might 

Conceal my lack of skill here in the spotlights 

Maya, the mother of illusions, a beard, and I 

2000 or so years since Ovid taught 

Night-blooming, teenage rosebuds, dirty talk 

And I'm merely a minor fascination to 

Manic virginal lust and college dudes 

Well, I'm beginning to begin to see the end 

Of how it all goes down between me and them 

Some 10 verse chorus-less diatribe 

Plays as they all jump ship, "I used to like this guy 

His new songs really kind of make me want to die" 

Ohhh-ho-oh-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh 

Ohhh-ho-oh-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh 

My first memory of music's from 

The time at JCPenney with my mom 

The watermelon candy I was choking on 

Barbara screaming, "someone help my son" 

I relive it most times the radio's on 

That "tell me the lies, sweet little white lies" song 

That when I first saw the comedy won't stop for 

Even little boys dying in the department store 

So we leave town in total silence 

New Year's Day, it's 6 o'clock AM 

I've never seen a sunset this abandoned 

Reminds me predictably of the world's end 

It'll be good to get more space 

God knows what all these suckers paid 

I can stop drinking and you can write your script 

But what we both think now is...