The Saddle

by Lonely Deer

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There are all sorts of tiny bells floating around my head I can count each and every one I can reach out and touch one I've heard stories of the giant whale That his belly was never full That he could really swim I bet he knew a thing or two There's some vague lasting future that we're all drowning in It kinda sounds like the penny whistle and the water tastes like gin I can count and be outnumbered I can come waltzing in A hook, a lie and a whisper Spotty past, forgotten sister
Sitting there, with a pencil in my hand, thinking I can be everything to all men. I can be a dream, catch it in a stream, be something in between, a tether uniting the thing I could have been and that thing you never wanted. Sitting there, with the instructions in my hand thinking, I can be an interruption to all women. The steps are clear, read it without fear, "Good evening and good night, you've done your best with sheer delights." The hammer blows Moving out of time, running in a circle The hammer blows Running out of time, moving in your circular thoughts Laying there, with it swirling round my head, thinking, 'I did nothing then and I can do nothing again!' Like it's some kind of right, like there's a duty in ambivalence, like there's nothing crawling up your thigh, saying, "If you want to run out of time, honest, the best of us, we won't mind."
The broken water, the foggy streets, the grim man. Five hundred miles, our hands in the sand. This land moves, with you. This land moves, or we do. Our heads in the harbour, our feet on the street. Whiskey and beer, the world laid out for you and me. This land moves, with you. This land moves, or we do. It's a small world, but it's alive. You said, "It's ours, but we'll let them share it for a time." This land moves, with you. This land moves, or we do.
Burned at the stake Another fucking fake One day a real witch will come along Day after day Stoking the flames In our own special way, evil be gone Realize My fingers are tight, my bones are dry Pour down, Give it back to the air, give it back to the ground From mountain to plain We're coming your way We'll ride into town on a buggy of flame I could run a ship And I could be a man This land is mine because I am good So take your time And run it out This land is mine because I am good
I'm talking right over you like I know what to do. We walk the line. We're passing through. The road is always broken, they don't save it for the chosen few. I said we're a prison. You said we're a plum. I said this is over. You knew we'd just begun. We have such bad ideas, and that's not something from which you can run. I thought you were a snake charmer, and you once were. I was not the magician that I pretended to be. Everything I've transfixed has given way under a shaky voice and a spirit tame not fit for conjuring. Hiccups at the orgy. A sweater abandoned on a lake. Five years is a long time to make a mistake.
You were a treasure, a find, amongst the dusty rubble of barn commerce and country living. You were youthful, beautiful, cropped right at the top of the skull, a forehead of fur like a red carpet, presenting its prize. Your documents were all in order, as useful to you now as when you grazed the sweet danger of a road unfortunate enough to cut through the trees, as useful to me now as indifference. Certain animals were interested in your smell, even now, sniffing at your curiosity. But there was something going on, something we couldn't see, and it was eating your marrow to dust. It didn't come to me in a vision, or even all at once, but I realized I don't know very much about preserving anything and keeping things tidy for a future.
Maybe this town has got nothing but it's mine. There's a road that runs through there, running down my spine. And everything glows in time. I never saw the faces, but they're in my mind. The broken trees, the lamp post, the halo of the down. And everything glows in time. Maybe this town has got nothing but it's mine. There's a road running there, running down my spine.
The sky's the colour of cream. Her eyes bounce from the window to the screen. What's in it for me? I'm sick of all this travelling. The van smells like meat. On display and acting sweet. Why am I always the one who gets beat? I'm bigger, but you've got the key. What's in it for me? "You've got your face in every town." "But you've got me playing the clown." "Now don't be like that you should be proud, today you drew quite the crowd." What's in it for me? It was somewhere along Highway 2. The sun rising, the lake in view. She looked at her phone, I was in command. And the cows looked good against the green grass. What's in it for me? There was a knife in the water, there was blood in the pool in a pool. He said, "I didn't think you'd try. We started something good. I knew you'd never care for doing something good." As I spat out his name -- "Goodbye" -- I turned to my stage and out into the night.


The Saddle — Lonely Deer as Franco Pope is The Saddle. This title was for a concept album that I abandoned. It was supposed to be a suite of songs written off the cuff with calypso and conga beats. And what kind of man would sing a clunky, sullen electric guitar song backed by a vivacious Latin groove? Surely not Lonely Deer, for how can one be lonely when one’s ass is shaking with such vigour? Franco Pope sounds like that man, though. You can find him in the corner wearing a wide-brimmed hat or standing in one.

Anyhow, this is not that album. There are no calypso or conga beats here. These are largely sleepy rock songs recorded in a living room. At one point some very well-timed Victoria Day fireworks appear through an open window.

Thank you for visiting.

Lonely Deer


released June 2, 2016

All songs written and performed by Lonely Deer


all rights reserved



Lonely Deer Toronto, Ontario

Somewhere between folk, rock and roll, the everyday and the absurd is Lonely Deer, quietly releasing home recordings from his apartment in Toronto.

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