from by Thom Carter



Women, on the hill,
On the hill, they come,

Images, of a restless night,
And of the sexual type of love.

Tell me, what did the witches see?
What did the Sandman leave at your door?

Friday, and the wind blows East,
Through your Harris Tweed jacket,

Jacket, Jacket,
Jacket, Jacket.

Patterns, made of falling leaves,
Before they’ve been raked up by the Parkmen,

“All Clear”, says the Ambulance voice,
“But they’ll be no more dreaming, no more”…

Frightened by the Winters smoking blues,
And the softly falling arrow of The Truth;
That it’s not real anymore, without you,
It’s just not real anymore,

But there’s still women on the hill,
Women on the hill,
They come,

Just don’t you fall in love,

Just don’t you fall in love,
And you’ll be alright,

‘Cause there’s nothing but their powdered eyes,
‘Cause there’s nothing but the same old tightening ties,
Around your life and mine,

Around your life and mine,
And you can’t cut them if you try.


from Jacket EP, released July 14, 2014
Words and Music by Thom Carter, Copyright 2014.



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Thom Carter Hastings, UK

Slow-motion alt-folk songs for those who are also walking backwards...

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