Lletres: Conor Oberst. Beach Bum/Postman Song.

All the peacock people left their plumes in a pile
They looked good to a fault
And the gulf water's warm like a bathtub
Full of lavender and epsom salt
Watch a bleach-blonde boy put his longboard down
Help his girl get her sunscreen on
And I thought about you in your tiny house
Think you're lonely, but I could be wrong
And, I wanna be a bootlegger,
Wanna mix you up something strange
Braid your hair like a sister, maybe like a hurricane

Right there, that's the postman sleeping in the sand
He's got my letters to deliver, but I'm still not mad
Right there, that's the postman sleeping in the sand
He's got a get well card to deliver, he's gonna do it by hand
He's gonna do it by hand

Now they drive their cars up and down the beach
It's ridiculous and everybody knows
Hear the Mustangs rev at the four-way stop
You get ghosted when the light says go
But in a town like this, in the checkered-flag dawn
It's so empty you could make somebody dream
So maybe it's you, in your four-post bed
Sound asleep, but still grinding your teeth
And, I wanna be your happiness
I wanna be your common sense pane
Wrap your head in a picket fence, we'll build after the hurricane

Right there, that's the postman sleeping in the sand
He's got my letters to deliver, but I can't stay mad
Right there, that's the postman asleep in the sand
He's got a get well card to deliver, he's gonna do it by hand
He's gonna do it
He's gonna do it
He's gonna do it
He's gonna do it
He's gonna do it
He's gonna do it by hand