Regency

by boog

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  • Digital Album

    Immediate download of 5-track album in your choice of high-quality MP3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.

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1.
01:58
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2.
03:28
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3.
03:51
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4.
03:25
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5.
04:26
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credits

released 29 May 2012
All lyrics and music written by Kyle Simmons, also known as boog

boog - Bass, Guitar, Vocals
Zachariah Beaver - Drums

Cover photo by Anne Eder

Drums on tracks 2, 3, and 5 recorded by Ken Kelemen at Hear The Ocean Studios, Spring City, PA
All other instruments and tracks recorded and mixed at The Haberdashery, Pottstown, PA

Mastered by Chris Bell at Silent Home Records, Hastings, NE

Thank you, Mr. Michael Wall

All songs published by Passionslut Songs (ASCAP)

tags

tags: alt-country alt-folk alternative country cowpunk doo wop folk little anthony lo-fi philly punk ribot tape Philadelphia

license

all rights reserved

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Track Name: Conqubine
I do not care what you think.
You are my prize
for raising my hand, razing this land,
and serving great men up to the flies.

Yes, I've heard talk of your visions,
but I pay them no mind.
You can choose to believe
what they've told you to see,
but you still must march to my time
over mountains, to the sea,
through the camp on the shore—
wherever I set out with my
heart set on war

You are bound by more than
the chains at your wrist.
Open up like a lowered fist
and let me love you.
Track Name: Cween
Friend,
your shirt is so thin,
I can see your skin
And your skin is so thin,
I can see your veins—
all of them
They look like rivulets with nowhere to drain
canvasing a landscape more parchment than porcelain

Cween,
I won’t just weave the rugs on which you walk—
I would dye
the fabric myself with all the blood-
colored flowers I can find
Would that be enough to suit one so sublime
as your majesty?
Can’t you see the lengths I’d take for you?
After all, it’s the least thing that I could do for a

Friend,
that pallor in your face
lends such natural grace to
the darkest of spaces between your words,
the pitfalls there
It’s just the breaking off of sounds that I just cannot endure
How can you drill on my bones, yet seem so demure?

Cween,
can I please be the one whose finger you let rub
vermilion into your lips, so that they can suck
all the sense out of his mind?
You’ll have him lying at your door like a dog,
hopeless, pining for that which he ought not see—
to be what I can’t be:
a temporary trapping for that given wound
Your suitor swoons, and I’m outside your room on patrol
Well, who am I to say, as long as you claim
to be in control of your

proper appropriation of your good humors,
lest you become fodder for those nasty rumors
The seeds of doubt inside you are beginning to bloom
into the most benign little tumors
And, should you slip the littlest bit, you’ll be cut into bits and
served to all those hungry consumers
So, keep your enemies close,
closer than you would a
Track Name: Princes-To-Be-Kings
Those unspeakable things please,
they are pleasing,
but they’ve been known never to have pleased
It’s a silly kind of sorrow when the thought of it tomorrow
turns out twice as thrilling as the deed

What makes a sir a sire pulls his will as thin as wire,
and, when he bends, he sends his eyes looking to the stars
Why do princes murder kings, when princes-to-be-kings
never know how truly fortunate they are?

Be mindful of binding distractions,
lest you be defeatedly timing a brainchild’s contractions
But who was going to be the one to tell us how much was enough?

We’re so good at trying to be good at
trying to be good at being ourselves
We dress our vagaries in absolutes
Well, hey, isn’t half of style looking cute?
And we’ve all fallen victim to that wicked vogue, as well

With all this playacting,
when whichever curtain’s drawn, we can safely say that
we were never short of practice
But who was going to be the one to tell us how much was enough?
And how much was enough?
Track Name: To The Hilt (Fork-Tongued Crusader)
It is crippling to be ignored
It's a double-edged sword
I've stuck it in you,
to the hilt

Was it a glorious kill? No.
There's no glory in keeping
the sun from a bloom
'til it wilts

Did this duel have a victor? No.
I feel cruel. I feel sick.
I feel frail under this mail
of guilt

My respects weren't paid
when I left your side to crusade
And my banner was betrayed
with the first drop of blood spilt

I've earned this chainpiece I wear
for the secrets I've shared,
offered up to the air
with the smoke, the bones, and the filth

For defiling my word,
I'll take this double-edged sword
and plunge it straight through my heart,
to the hilt
Track Name: Good Pantaloons, Louis! (To Be The Sun King For A Spell)
Beware the hissing of sycophants
and the candy-coated army ants
They’ll lick you before you can lick them away

They may pull up your pantaloons
and button your blouse for you,
but they’re really only stripping clothes away
They’re only undressing you, anyway

Beware your commissioned satyrs
and those fork-tongued crusaders
They’ll snake their way in your chamber to do you in

They may buckle your shoes for you
and run to taste your soup for you,
but they’ll be the first to pour the poison in
and watch your last syllables dribble down your chin

Beware your airheaded gentry
and your slick-fingered sentry
They’ll give any scoundrel entry to your bed

They may stand outside your room at night
and make sure that you’re tucked in tight,
but, when the moment’s right, they’ll kiss you on the head,
then dye your sheets a deeper shade of red

You may think your power’s absolute,
but trace the flower to the root
You’ll find the fruit to be what really has it made—
soaking in all the sun, while you lie buried in the shade

The ones who don’t love you don’t matter,
no, not a little bit, no, not at all
The ones who don’t love you don’t matter,
The ones who dress you up and false flatter—
they don’t matter,
no, not a little bit, not at all