Justin Solonynka
Maybe She'll Dance

The old man died and her soul went along
Not that she really knew him
And they were caught like flies in a posthumous web
On a thread marked "Next of kin"
And now they have what once was his own
And all the stories besides
She begins to rummage and hopes to strike carpet
So perhaps she can go for a ride

Or maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Or maybe she'll dance all over it
Maybe she'll dance

She took fifty-six flannels and washed them all clean
The fire marshall comes today
A can of weiner bits bursts into flames
She's got sixty-two records to play

Or maybe she'll sell them, maybe she'll keep them
Maybe she'll burn them, maybe she'll eat them
Maybe she'll spit on them outside and in, just to clean them off
Or maybe she'll dance all over them
Maybe she'll

Take a giant vat of nails and screws and
Throw it down the stairs
Then take heaps of paint, heaps of paint and glue and
See if the living care

And now there's the house that held all this stuff
Grandfather left her here
She can't wiggle her nose or pray to some God
To make the house disappear

But maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Or maybe she'll dance,
Maybe she'll dance all over...


Mirror lyrics:

Maybe she'll dance all over...
Or maybe she'll dance,
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
But maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it

To make the house disappear
She can't wiggle her nose or pray to some God
Grandfather left her here
And now there's the house that held all this stuff

See if the living care
Then take heaps of paint, heaps of paint and glue and
Throw it down the stairs
Take a giant vat of nails and screws and

Maybe she'll
Or maybe she'll dance all over them
Maybe she'll spit on them outside and in, just to clean them off
Maybe she'll burn them, maybe she'll eat them
Or maybe she'll sell them, maybe she'll keep them

She's got sixty-two records to play
A can of weiner bits bursts into flames
The fire marshall comes today
She took fifty-six flannels and washed them all clean

Maybe she'll dance
Or maybe she'll dance all over it
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
Or maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it

So perhaps she can go for a ride
She begins to rummage and hopes to strike carpet
And all the stories besides
And now they have what once was his own
On a thread marked "Next of kin"
And they were caught like flies in a posthumous web
Not that she really knew him
The old man died and her soul went along


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