“It Don’t Mean a Thing”
by Nate Marshall

The cat’s curled in the sofa,
there’s flowers in the air.
The clock in the kitchen moves
but never gets anywhere.
The fridge is full of colors;
there’s all things physical-
But babe anything valuable
is invisible.

Sometimes it feels 
I’m dangling on strings,
pulling at all angles,
just dying to sing:
“what can love amount to
in the structure of centuries?”
Then you just lay me down
singing, “babe, it don’t mean a thing.”

There’s fish on the piano
and beer between the keys.
A lone light bulb hanging
in the room there and I can see
that the idle mind’s a workshop
and the devil’s serving gin.
So if I work myself to the bone
it can’t get under my skin.

Sometimes it feels
I’m dangling on strings,
pulling at all angles,
just dying to sing:
“what can love amount to
in the structure of centuries?”
Then you just lay me down
singing, “babe, it don’t mean a thing.”

Two birds on the wires 
warily looking down.
Jealousy stains my footsteps,
keeps my nose on the ground.
That clock in the attic ticks,
you know I hear it well-
and all your penniless words
your secrets never tell.

Sometimes it feels 
I’m dangling on strings,
pulling at every angle,
and I’m just dying to sing:
“what can love amount to
in the structure of centuries?”
Then you just lay me down
singing, “babe, it don’t mean a thing.”