Amy, I could listen to you talk for miles
With your feet on the dash and Harry Styles
on the radio singing about assorted fruits
You bleached my hair somewhere in Texas
Dressed me up in a white pearl necklace
All dolled up the way you want me to be
You say I look a bit like Machine Gun Kelly
But still you aren't buying anything that I'm selling, come on
What do I gotta do? What do I gotta do?
Tell me, Amy, how do I get through?
I'm just a primetime baby in a cable knit sweater
And I'm writing love letters to you
You talk about the day that we're gonna get married
The design on the ring and the way I'll carry
You across the threshold with flowers in your hair
We're moving in so I put my stuff in storage
Then you say you're not sure if you're ready for it
I stutter and I stammer as I say this isn't fair to me
All my friends tell me that you're bad news bears
but I'm dumber than an avalanche of rocks and I care too much
Maybe in another life you'd be good for me
Maybe this isn't the end of our story, oh no
These guys tick every box for what I want in music. The melodies, the harmonies, the lyrics. There's a character limit so I'll say there are few perfect records in the world and this is one of them. Karma Gambit
Every song title (and every lyric) is depressing as hell, but it somehow manages to make you feel better about life at the same time. And isn't that perhaps the noblest thing music can do? Karma Gambit