The Crooked Joint

[Verse 1]
The new gymnasium smells of pine and lacquer fume.
March seventeenth, nineteen thirty-seven, just a rented room.
I'm sweeping up the shavings, the grain runs dark and strange,
a hairline fissure in the joist, just out of reason's range.

[Chorus]
(Call) It’s a crooked joint, son.
(Response) *It’s a crooked joint.*
(Call) A line you can’t make true.
(Response) *Can't make it true.*
(All) Something’s pulling at the frame God knows I didn’t screw.

[Verse 2]
The last school bell rings hollow through the two-by-four and dust.
A kid outside is laughin', leaning on a fence of rust.
I measured twice this morning, but the board still came up short.
The air feels thick and heavy, a pressure of a sort.

[Chorus]
(Call) It’s a crooked joint, son.
(Response) *It’s a crooked joint.*
(Call) A line you can’t make true.
(Response) *Can't make it true.*
(All) Something’s pulling at the frame God knows I didn’t screw.

[Bridge]
Old Man Shaw, he dropped the nails and said, "You hear that hummin' sound?"
There’s a tension in the floorboards, a tremble in the ground.
*Pero nadie oye nada.* Just the wind against the door.

[Outro]
Yeah, a crooked joint.
What a good nail's for.