New Albion 7

"New Albion 7" is the eighth track of Fairy Tales for the Lost and Wandering.

## Lyrics

*(spoken)*

New Albion: a city brooding in the night like a couple who won't speak to each other after a fight. Only instead of a fight, it was a revolution, and instead of a couple, it's eight districts, operating almost independently and eyeing each other warily. Out of those eight, pick the one, the district, the street, the building, the pair of shoes you'd least like to be in right now, and that's where you'll find me.

*(sung)*

The faded scene, the dead man's dream

That are gone like a song down the river

The hymns they play, jaded, afraid of a never

And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla

The right man's wrong, the loser's song

That are gone like the prints of the killer

The sap you see, drop your dreams in the river

And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla

*(spoken)*

Well, I heard a glass of bourbon calling all the way from Holbert's Pub to the office, saying “It's time to close up for the day”.

But before my fingers can flick the intercom to tell Gwendolyn to go on home, this decked-out dame in an all-business suit strolls in, looking like chilled top-shelf desire stirred over ice, and reeking of politics and ambition – the kind of ambition that lays stagnant and panting over at the Mayor's office when they struggle to get eight districts that don't give a damn to pay them the kind of pittance of attention a toothless prostitute dreams a dapper young dandy will dain to spare on her as she gurgles slovenly in an alcoholic daze.

Well, this dame's not the kind to take the time to congratulate or chastise me for that epic last sentence, so I don't take it personally when she gets right down to business.

*(sung)*

Mr. Harlot, you're the man I've picked, I do so need a private Dick

They say you can find a track, anything a girl might lack

My husband, he's gone 'round the bend, he's found religion, joined a sect

They're looking for this relic now, Saint Priscilla's holy shroud

Strange as it might seem, there's those in office who agree

A symbol, crazy as it is, could make New Albion whole again

Since the revolution's end, our city's split and cannot mend

Mr. Harlot, find it please, you can have a fee in me

*(spoken)*

I've been hearing rumors about these 'Voodoo-pu', some weird underground religious thing that, after the revolution, has started slowly poking its head out again. Well, the whole thing smells nuttier than squirrel crap under an oak tree, but she flirts well and pays even better, so off I go to find the stupid shroud. Skip a boring chapter or two, and next I'm in the iron district, squeezing down a hefty middle-aged metallomancer I go back with who's recently found the light and joined the Voodoo-pu.

*(sung)*

Nick, we're just small-time, our faith is struggling to survive

In order that we'd grow, we need some holy thing to show

A martyr would be great, or a relic, or a saint

The shroud would go some way to cement and spread our faith

*(spoken)*

Next comes the part where me and the dame meet up again and one of us lets the other seduce them, although it's a bit unclear which is which. The whole seduction takes place around the context of discussing how the Mayor's office is hoping to cultivate and use a state-sponsored religion in order to establish a city-wide identity and unity, but the discussion gets too hot to keep talking religion and politics. And thus, a prudent fade-out later, I'm walking home when I'm approached by a serene-looking gentleman, who wastes no time in cutting to the chase.

*(sung)*

Mr. Harlot, please, a word

I'm from the sect of which you've heard

There are some of us who vow

That this relic not be found

The mysticism of our faith

Just such an idol would profane

I beg that if you find it, please

Discreetly leave it, sir, with me

*(spoken)*

Uh-huh. Skip some more boring chapters, although there's two pretty good fight scenes, the first of which I lose, but the second one I win, so yay for me.

Anyway, we find out I'm a pretty good detective after all, 'cause for all this relic's sacredness dating back to some broad just before the revolution, I actually tracked down the guy who made it, no more than nine months ago, and he sings me a verse that sounds like this:

*(sung)*

Mr. Harlot, don't you know, we've got a business set to go

Voodoo-pus have a lot of faith for relics, which they'll gladly pay

And I and some fine gentlemen are all set up to cash it in

On shrouds, and veils, and bones, there's no end to the sea of cash that'll flow

*(spoken)*

So there's that there plot twist, then we skip ahead some more – hey, if you didn't want to skip the boring chapters, you should've read the damn book yourself. Anyway, pin a medal on me, 'cause I found the damn shroud, and of course, right as I did, they all found me, and there were guns blazing shooting at everybody, and ---

Listen, when they say how I jumped out the window with the relic, I was in a state of sacrificial grace, protecting it at the cost of my own life and all, don't believe that crock. The truth is, there was no way out of that crapstorm but through the window, so through the window I went.

I survived the fall, if you want to call this surviving. I'll never move or talk again. I just sit here like some dull-eyed doll, but the church takes care of me, oh, they do. I'm their new poster-boy, their living paraplegic martyr who sacrificed himself for their relic. Their next saint, Saint Harlot.

They wheel me out on the weekends to a worshipful crowd who praise my name. They tell themselves as the religion grows, the city will heal. And, you know, the funny thing is, as they worship, I do indeed pray. I pray something fierce. I pray to Saint Priscilla or whatever other callous sod can hear me to deliver me indeed. Deliver me from this damn city of fools and saints.

*(sung)*

The faded scene, the dead man's dream

That are gone like a song down the river

The hymns they play, jaded, afraid of never

And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla

The right man's wrong, the lover's song

That are gone like the prints of the killer

The sap you seem, drop your dreams in the river

And so deliver me, Saint Priscilla