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Saint Valentine - Gregory Alan Isakov
Well
Grace she's gone
She's a half-written poem
She went out for cigarettes
And never came home
And I swallowed the sun
And screamed and wailed
Straight down to the dirt
So I could find her trail
Spread out across the Great Divide
Well
I just came to talk
Saint Valentine
I never pictured you living
Here with the rats and the vines
Ain't that my old heart
Hanging out on your lines
You're all fucked up
Saint Valentine
Now I circle the bars on the promenade
While the girls in the glass
They're just throwing me shade
And I'm saving my coins
Up for Jingling Jane
She's out plucking strings
In the pouring rain
She's out plucking strings
In the pouring rain
See I'm all crooked feet
Saint Valentine
I've circled this map
Till it caught on fire
Now Grace she's left you
Just skin and bone
Well
You hang up your hat
But you can't call it home
You've tried and you've tried
But you can't call it home
You're the loneliest one
Saint Valentine
You're the loneliest one
Saint Valentine
You're all fucked up
Saint Valentine
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