Denne triste dopballaden er, mener jeg, den beste sangen han skrev (som vi har fått høre, i det minste).
Elliott Smith var i stor grad en håndverker — ikke dermed sagt at han var banal eller uinteressert i de kunstneriske aspektene ved popmusikk, men han spilte og sang og spilte inn det han spilte og sang hele tiden — han holdt seg oppdatert og lærte seg så mye han kunne om innspillingsprosesser og produksjon.
Et av problemene med tekniske flinkiser er at de ofte ikke formidler noe særlig i det hele tatt, utover sin egen tekniske flinkishet. Men Elliott var annerledes i så måte, jeg tror ingen ville anklage ham for å være likegyldig til musikkens budskap.

The King’s crossing was the main attraction
Dominoes falling in a chain reaction
The scraping subject ruled by fear told me
Whiskey works better than beer

The judge is on vinyl, decisions are final
And nobody gets a reprieve
And every wave is tidal
If you hang around you’re going to get wet

I can’t prepare for death any more than I already have
All you can do now is watch the shells
The game looks easy, that’s why it sells

Frustrated fireworks inside your head
Are going to stand and deliver talk instead
The method acting that pays my bills
Keeps the fat man feeding in Beverly Hills

I got a heavy metal mouth, it hurls obscenity
And I get my check from the trash treasury
Because I took my own insides out

It don’t matter ‘cause I have no sex life
And all I wanna do now is inject my ex-wife
I’ve seen the movie
And I know what happens

It’s Christmas time
And the needle’s on the tree
A skinny Santa is bringing something to me
His voice is overwhelming
But his speech is slurred
And I only understand every other word

Open your parachute and grab your gun
Falling down like an omen, a setting sun
Read the part and return at five
It’s a hell of a role if you can keep it alive

But I don’t care if I fuck up
I’m going on a date
With a rich wife lady
Ain’t life great?

Give me one good reason not to do it
(Because we love you)
So do it

This is the place where time reverses
And dead men talk to all the pretty nurses
Instruments shine on a silver tray
Don’t let me get carried away
Don’t let me get carried away
Don’t let me be carried away

I morgen er det fire år siden han døde.