[contralto female vocals] [[Threshold] i don’t got no dynasty, no dusty old estate just a phone bill, two bad knees, and a habit of showing up late but sometimes i dream there’s an aunt i never knew i had she’s rich, eccentric, lonely, and secretly thinks i’m rad (...) [Hook] wouldn’t it be nice if aunt martha died left me the house with the fountains inside wouldn’t it be nice if the lawyer sighed and said “my dear, she adored you—she really tried” wouldn’t it be nice if the safe swung wide and every coin she hoarded became my guide oh wouldn’t it be nice if my luck implied that fate had a sense of humor on my side (...) [Verse 1] she’s got portraits of dogs in velvet suits, and clocks that never chime silver spoons, scandalous poems, and wine that outlived time her ghostwriter’s bored, her gardener’s high, her butler’s on the run and somewhere in her will, she wrote my name—just for fun she saw my face in a census once, maybe on a family tree and thought “this poor stray branch deserves a little luxury” so when her heart stopped mid–bridge club toast my broke self became her chosen ghost (...) [Hook] wouldn’t it be nice if aunt martha died left me the house with the fountains inside wouldn’t it be nice if the lawyer sighed and said “my dear, she adored you—she really tried” wouldn’t it be nice if the safe swung wide and every coin she hoarded became my guide oh wouldn’t it be nice if my luck implied that fate had a sense of humor on my side (...) [Verse 2] i’d wander halls with peeling paint and chandeliers in shame find diaries full of secret wars and lovers with no names a grand piano out of tune, a ballroom gone to dust a mirror that swears i’m royalty if i look with enough trust i’d auction the pearls, keep the coat, give the staff a raise start fixing the roof between champagne haze throw open the gates for the neighbors to see what generational wealth looks like on me (...) [Bridge] but back here in my apartment, with cracked paint on the wall i laugh at my delusions and the echo down the hall no martha, no mansion, no fortune to bequeath just ramen steam and secondhand grief still, sometimes i picture that velvet will with my name inked fine, the room gone still the kind of fantasy that keeps you fed when the cupboards and the hope run dead (...) [Hook – final] wouldn’t it be nice if aunt martha died left me the house with the fountains inside wouldn’t it be nice if the lawyer sighed and said “my dear, she adored you—she really tried” wouldn’t it be nice if the safe swung wide and every coin she hoarded became my guide oh wouldn’t it be nice if the gods complied and sent me wealth i never implied (...) [Outro] so here’s to imaginary bloodlines, and their velvet ghosts to the fantasies that feed the broke the most i’ll raise my cup of instant tea and toast to a rich aunt i’ll never meet— and the dream that keeps me almost close.
