Elvis Costello
Poor Fractured Atlas

He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun
To try to recapture his anger
He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs
Until he begins to feel younger
But back at his desk in the city we find
Our trembling punch-drunken fighter
Who can't find the strength now to punish the length
Of the ribbon in his little typewriter

Poor fractured Atlas
Threw himself across the mattress
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden
He said "That's how the child in me planned it
A woman wouldn't understand it"

I believe there was something that I wanted to say
Before I conclude this epistle
But you would forgive me for holding my tongue
'Cause man made the blade and the pistol
Yes man made the waterfall over the dam
To temper his tantrum with magic
Now you can't be sure of that tent of azure
Since he punched a hole in the fabric

Poor fractured Atlas
Threw himself across the mattress
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden
He said "That's how the child in me planned it
A woman wouldn't understand it"


Mirror lyrics:

A woman wouldn't understand it"
He said "That's how the child in me planned it
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass
Threw himself across the mattress
Poor fractured Atlas

Since he punched a hole in the fabric
Now you can't be sure of that tent of azure
To temper his tantrum with magic
Yes man made the waterfall over the dam
'Cause man made the blade and the pistol
But you would forgive me for holding my tongue
Before I conclude this epistle
I believe there was something that I wanted to say

A woman wouldn't understand it"
He said "That's how the child in me planned it
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass
Threw himself across the mattress
Poor fractured Atlas

Of the ribbon in his little typewriter
Who can't find the strength now to punish the length
Our trembling punch-drunken fighter
But back at his desk in the city we find
Until he begins to feel younger
He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs
To try to recapture his anger
He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun


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tractured wtlas Por tFractured wAtlas Poor Ftractured Awtlas Pkor vractured xtlas Pkoor vFractured xAtlas Pokor Fvractured Axtlas
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