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The ritual goes, same window different visual. |
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Wing of wax, or wing of gold leaf |
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Choose one. |
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Float or plummet 20 thousand cold legues |
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My nourishment's provided in the summer |
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So that I wonder |
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How y'all chasin' dreams when what's tangible still outruns ya |
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Hail dirty doll immaculate performance |
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Warm as the march of a billion torches forward to burn what |
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I born at |
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Cut and paste alertness to current set is provided quick |
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Shimmy the pirate ship mast, bat the eyelids at the siren in her bow (?) |
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Facing, let's salute the embrace pertinent generals who turned innocent hermits to burning spectacles. |
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Flirtin' with a serpent workin' overtime |
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Drain the battery, siphon the poison and flood his majesty's hatchery. |
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I was riding on the yellow bus to where the brush thickens. |
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Yeah, an it ain't exactly plush pickin's |
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I'd rather take the time to burn every last bridge |
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I've ever crossed beneath the sun |
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Than live my life knowin' you may one day follow me over one. |
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Snake bite |
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Breath too heavy to hold. |
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Caught up in the wake of the red witch tryin' to swim it. |
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Ran for the sake of dead click stripped of idealic image |
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Steal a sloppy earth meal feed my pottery wheel to model collossal vision |
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Thrill, shrunken with a bucket of pennies |
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I'ma drag my sneakers through the dirt like alligator bellies ' |
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Til the cloud burst |
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Honour and a loud thirst submersed in a trap |
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Little drummer boy verse' thunderclap |
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In a city of garbage, tryin' to reap the harvest |
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Adaption is the trap in which the artist meets the forest |
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Swing your little axe or be an oak tree if you can |
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Either way, adapt to circumstance or play you final hand. |
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No enigma, an attempt to bury the hatchet |
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Rendered me victim of deviltry plus wounded like stigmatics |
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Somethin's somethin hazardous |
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I smell an inch of differnce in this mornin's pollution pistons and how the loose ends drift in |
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My sour pash (?) institutions slipped in admidst the invaders and, |
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Pardon my tone but, |
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This garden's grown ****en' acres since my visit. |
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Itchin' to count the layers in the blizzard to that chapter where my family inserts the dagger and twists it. |
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It's the carnival, have you any sweets for my weary kin |
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It's the carnival, have you any feed for my cheery grin |
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It's the carnival, welcome, play our games you'll never win |
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Coz it's that carnival where every freak show spectacle's your friend. |
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An' I'm a, |
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Ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas |
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Antifreeze to glacier cookin' a look of fiery nature |
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It's the, |
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Ceilin' feelin' too heavy to bless the |
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I-beams for a fraction more collapse (I left sorry) that to your door. |
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Bitchin' my back to hell's kitchen, back |
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Burnin' murder machinery, released regardless of the pardons |
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Hitchin my life to the leash of one minstrel |
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Sick of same window different visual |
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Same agnostic hostage different ritual |
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Play, coopertive supercolony clash (I heard we have a dust collection - let me see it) |
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Ooh, I duel this underdog verse forced adaption to the marbles of the now |
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Since then my knuckles haven't once dragged on the ground. |
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In a city of garbage, tryin' to reap the harvest |
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Adaption is the trap in which the artist meets the forest |
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Swing your little axe or be an oak tree if you can |
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Either way, adapt to circumstance or play you final hand. |
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The ritual goes, same window different visual. |
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The ritual is same ****en' window different visual. |
