My name is Ryan and I tell stories, usually untruthfully.
This is the story of your red right ankle And how it came to meet your leg And how the muscles, bone, and sinews tangled And how it’s skin was softly shed
And how it whispered, “Oh, adhere to me, For we are bound by symmetry. Whatever differences our lives have been We together make a limb.” This is the story of your red right ankle.
This is the story of your gypsy uncle You never knew ‘cause he was dead And how his face was carved and rift with wrinkles In the picture in your head.
And remember how you found the key To his hideout in the Pyrenees. But you wanted to keep his secret safe So you threw the key away. This is the story of your gypsy uncle.
This is the story of the boys who loved you, Who love you now and loved you then. And some were sweet and some were cold and snuffed you, And some just laid around in bed.
Some had crumbled you straight to your knees. Did it cruel, did it tenderly. Some had crawled their way into your heart To rend your ventricles apart. This is the story of the boys who loved you. This is the story of your red right ankle.