Lawrence Hargrave Drive

Rain poured in through the night,

A '74 Corolla outside,

He said it had to be ride or die,

And it was always on Lawrence Hargrave Drive .

In these pastures there's a rhythm to the roses.

The clouds above all stayed dark,

The cigarette he rolled fell apart,

Crushed the paper in his sweaty palm,

Cradled me to sleep in his arms,

He loves me like a baby lamb,

Simmer down in your frying pan,

Lather me in your marinade,

I didn't think we'd get away from pastures

And there's so many rabbits.