Salal and Scorn

[Verse 1]
The map of Parcel B is taped to the door,
it covers up the crack shaped like the shore.
This third Monday in a wet November,
the hall smells of damp wool and folded chairs,
a scent I will remember.

[Chorus]
And you weave your words of silk and threadbare lies
about the future reflected in your eyes.

[Verse 2]
You tap the microphone and clear your throat,
adjust the collar on your city coat.
"It's just progress, dear," you murmur with a pen,
and draw a line where the creek bed has always been.

[Chorus]
And you weave your words of silk and steel so fine,
but the coarse old wool of this whole world is mine.

[Bridge]
You're sanding down the grain right off this town,
trying to smooth our history down.
But the dust you raise is us, you see.
It's everything you'll never be.

[Chorus]
So weave your words of silk and what you will.
The Salal underneath is growing still.

[Outro]
The rain begins. You fold your map in two.
I'm still here, just watching you.