| Song | Uncast Shadow of a Southern Myth |
| Artist | Parquet Courts |
| Album | Content Nausea |
| [Andrew Savage] | |
| I’d seen the bloodlands of Antietam | |
| The shotgun shack in Tupelo | |
| But a brick circumference left hollow by Sherman | |
| Crumbling before me how it moaned | |
| His shape swallows my recollection | |
| That phantom silhouette implied | |
| Strange fruit rotting from an airborne and hotter than hell | |
| Is this the king’s last man I’ve spied? | |
| I stood there beside my companion | |
| Scratching a rumor he had heard | |
| Do you have a gun? | |
| What? He said, yeah, you mean this one? | |
| Straight down the barrel was his word | |
| And I smelt the fumes he inhaled swiftly | |
| Each word was hinged upon his choke | |
| Like kudzu creeping up a state tree discretely | |
| Forever bending as it broke | |
| And I heard the jangling keys of Graceland | |
| Ring from his teeth stained brown from coke | |
| Drunk and stumbling like a man of distinction | |
| They clamored shaking as he spoke | |
| Of droves of pilgrims at his doorway | |
| Of Reagan, Carter, Clinton, Gore | |
| Fortunes offered them, refused routinely | |
| This ain't no damn auction house he swore | |
| Black male standing around 6 foot something | |
| Ebbs through the waves of small town blight | |
| A minute coldly from southern affection | |
| Collides secretly into night | |
| Forgive those who trespass against us | |
| Began as the dead intruders plea | |
| Into the very muzzle I’d once peered into | |
| He gives the last words he will speak | |
| But that broken glass supports forced entry | |
| Reminds his lawyer through the phone | |
| What southern judge do you know, comforting gently | |
| Who jails white men who defend their home | |
| No souls were present for the moment | |
| His bombed out brick walls finally fell | |
| Lying face down in the throes of atonement | |
| Checked out of the Heartbreak Hotel | |
| He was the uncast shadow of a southern myth [x5] |
| Andrew Savage | |
| I' d seen the bloodlands of Antietam | |
| The shotgun shack in Tupelo | |
| But a brick circumference left hollow by Sherman | |
| Crumbling before me how it moaned | |
| His shape swallows my recollection | |
| That phantom silhouette implied | |
| Strange fruit rotting from an airborne and hotter than hell | |
| Is this the king' s last man I' ve spied? | |
| I stood there beside my companion | |
| Scratching a rumor he had heard | |
| Do you have a gun? | |
| What? He said, yeah, you mean this one? | |
| Straight down the barrel was his word | |
| And I smelt the fumes he inhaled swiftly | |
| Each word was hinged upon his choke | |
| Like kudzu creeping up a state tree discretely | |
| Forever bending as it broke | |
| And I heard the jangling keys of Graceland | |
| Ring from his teeth stained brown from coke | |
| Drunk and stumbling like a man of distinction | |
| They clamored shaking as he spoke | |
| Of droves of pilgrims at his doorway | |
| Of Reagan, Carter, Clinton, Gore | |
| Fortunes offered them, refused routinely | |
| This ain' t no damn auction house he swore | |
| Black male standing around 6 foot something | |
| Ebbs through the waves of small town blight | |
| A minute coldly from southern affection | |
| Collides secretly into night | |
| Forgive those who trespass against us | |
| Began as the dead intruders plea | |
| Into the very muzzle I' d once peered into | |
| He gives the last words he will speak | |
| But that broken glass supports forced entry | |
| Reminds his lawyer through the phone | |
| What southern judge do you know, comforting gently | |
| Who jails white men who defend their home | |
| No souls were present for the moment | |
| His bombed out brick walls finally fell | |
| Lying face down in the throes of atonement | |
| Checked out of the Heartbreak Hotel | |
| He was the uncast shadow of a southern myth x5 |