Down Where The Laurels Grow (Andrea Kayne Cover)

syncopated, screamo, deathcore, glitch rock, R&B

Girls went missing come harvest time,
Just smoke on the ridge and a dog whining blind.
Sheriff said “runaways, don’t stir the pot,”
But the crows in the trees said, “No they’re not.”
I saw her dress in the laurel thorn,
White cotton ripped and torn
Saw boot tracks leading into the shale—
Only one man wore heels that scale.

Where the laurel grows back crooked and thick,
Truth gets buried quick as a trick.
Blood don’t scream, it just soaks the ground,
And the mountain keeps as it makes no sound.

I followed him one fog-choked morn,
Past the mine tailings and the fields gone worn.
He whistled hymns like he couldn’t lose,
Carried a sack that leaked bad news.
Down by the pit where the dead trees lean,
I heard her voice through the in-between.
Not loud, not living—more like a plea
That crawled right inside the bones of me.

I didn’t pray. I didn’t shout.
I didn’t give him a way out.
Just swung that iron like my name depended,
And the mountain watched while his life got ended.
He fell wrong—funny how they do,
Eyes real wide like he finally knew.
The earth took him same as the rest,
Judgement dealt at my behest

Where the laurel grows back crooked and mean,
Justice ain’t clean and it ain’t serene.
Ain’t no court ‘cept root and stone,
Ain’t no law but your own.

They say the hills remember every sin,
But they don’t tell who and they don’t tell when.
They just breathe fog and grow things slow,
And wait to see what a man will owe.

Sheriff found bones come thaw that year,
Said “ain’t it strange how truth appears?”
I stood quiet, hands in my coat,
While the creek choked secrets down its throat.
Mama asked why I don’t sleep right,
Why I startle at owl cries at night.
I said, “Some things don’t wash away,”
She nodded once and turned to pray.

Where the laurel grows back crooked and wide,
The mountain doesn’t care which man died.
It takes them both when the time comes due,
The killer and the one who knew.

If you walk those hills, mind where you tread,
The dirt ain’t done with all its dead.
And if a man smiles just a touch too slow—
Follow the crows.
They know. 
Truths have a habit of dying though
Down where the laurels grow

2517/7500

I was raised where the creek runs black as sin, Where the hills keep secrets better’n men. Mama prayed hard, Daddy drank mean, I learned early what quiet means. There was a man lived down on Lonesome Bend, Elias Crow with a preacher’s grin. He talked real soft, shook your hand just right, But the ground went cold when he walked by at night. Girls went missing come harvest time, Just smoke on the ridge and a dog whining blind. Sheriff said “runaways, don’t stir the pot,” But the crows in the trees said, “No they’re not.” I saw her dress in the laurel thorn, White cotton ripped and torn Saw boot tracks leading into the shale— Only one man wore heels that scale. Where the laurel grows back crooked and thick, Truth gets buried quick as a trick. Blood don’t scream, it just soaks the ground, And the mountain keeps as it makes no sound. I followed him one fog-choked morn, Past the mine tailings and the fields gone worn. He whistled hymns like he couldn’t lose, Carried a sack that leaked bad news. Down by the pit where the dead trees lean, I heard her voice through the in-between. Not loud, not living—more like a plea That crawled right inside the bones of me. I didn’t pray. I didn’t shout. I didn’t give him a way out. Just swung that iron like my name depended, And the mountain watched while his life got ended. He fell wrong—funny how they do, Eyes real wide like he finally knew. The earth took him same as the rest, Judgement dealt at my behest Where the laurel grows back crooked and mean, Justice ain’t clean and it ain’t serene. Ain’t no court ‘cept root and stone, Ain’t no law but your own. They say the hills remember every sin, But they don’t tell who and they don’t tell when. They just breathe fog and grow things slow, And wait to see what a man will owe. Sheriff found bones come thaw that year, Said “ain’t it strange how truth appears?” I stood quiet, hands in my coat, While the creek choked secrets down its throat. Mama asked why I don’t sleep right, Why I startle at owl cries at night. I said, “Some things don’t wash away,” She nodded once and turned to pray. Where the laurel grows back crooked and wide, The mountain doesn’t care which man died. It takes them both when the time comes due, The killer and the one who knew. If you walk those hills, mind where you tread, The dirt ain’t done with all its dead. And if a man smiles just a touch too slow— Follow the crows. They know. Truths have a habit of dying though Down where the laurels grow

0/500