歌曲 | Castles f. Aesop Rock & Sadistik |
歌手 | Cunninlynguists |
专辑 | Strange Journey Volume Three |
Sadistik: | |
He said, 'Fuck sobriety, death to the worker bees' | |
Thirteen circles I've stepped for eternity | |
Burning purple, stressed on a murder spree | |
It's self-inflicted, don't get it twisted | |
These knives in my back now, Elliott Smith (yeah) | |
Rides in the background, melodies fit (yeah) | |
Mixed with The Misfits, fixes the hurt | |
When the lips that I kiss with press to the dirt | |
French-kiss vixens, distant and cursed | |
Burned bridges occurred from scriptin' my words | |
Word, so I'll chisel a verse | |
On these lie-filled halls that I've lived in and searched | |
I'm still lost in a head of catacombs | |
Cause I build walls like I'm Edgar Allan Poe | |
I've killed off every damsel that I know | |
For castles that I keep, castles that I know | |
Deacon: | |
I'm having spirits in the dark | |
Laying under moonlight | |
Laughing with a stranger like I’ve saved her from her doomed life | |
Pop a couple percs | |
A perk of anonymity | |
Trapped within a curse that I created with my energy | |
A path that I rehearse | |
A cycle on repeat | |
Life is like a lion and i’m dying at it’s feet | |
I roll another a sweet | |
Check my muted Treo | |
I’ve seemed to miss the plot | |
too busy caught up in the b-roll | |
My eye up to the key-hole | |
Scared to turn the knob | |
and go out on my own | |
Instead I blend in with the mob | |
My memory bank the only thing I tend to rob | |
and every time I’m thrown the lob i’m out of Dodge | |
It’s hard | |
On the blvd | |
and other cliches | |
The type of bullshit that I’m feeding self these days | |
Corrosion on my relays | |
One day my mirror shows | |
an Emp in new clothes | |
exposed | |
Aesop Rock: | |
I mow a dead lawn | |
Aim for the alpha | |
Ten claws deck the halls of Valhalla | |
Not a man or receptacle for crestfallen matter | |
Never tempered or pressed into patterns | |
But just won’t die | |
Instead of palpitation from the plasma | |
Pumping disenchanting anecdotes | |
And antiquated data at 'em | |
I get these headaches that climb down into my stomach | |
Then off in my extremities and out into the public | |
In a flood of shadow puppetry | |
Something in the air | |
Got a tiny pull of energy becoming self- aware | |
Its recognizing family in alpha numeric characters | |
Scenery and deities with unassuming avatars | |
Close encounters exacerbate his condition | |
From placid to a bastion of classic misdirection | |
Tune into the Casio adventures | |
When the rest of me can barely form a God damn sentence! |
Sadistik: | |
He said, ' Fuck sobriety, death to the worker bees' | |
Thirteen circles I' ve stepped for eternity | |
Burning purple, stressed on a murder spree | |
It' s selfinflicted, don' t get it twisted | |
These knives in my back now, Elliott Smith yeah | |
Rides in the background, melodies fit yeah | |
Mixed with The Misfits, fixes the hurt | |
When the lips that I kiss with press to the dirt | |
Frenchkiss vixens, distant and cursed | |
Burned bridges occurred from scriptin' my words | |
Word, so I' ll chisel a verse | |
On these liefilled halls that I' ve lived in and searched | |
I' m still lost in a head of catacombs | |
Cause I build walls like I' m Edgar Allan Poe | |
I' ve killed off every damsel that I know | |
For castles that I keep, castles that I know | |
Deacon: | |
I' m having spirits in the dark | |
Laying under moonlight | |
Laughing with a stranger like I' ve saved her from her doomed life | |
Pop a couple percs | |
A perk of anonymity | |
Trapped within a curse that I created with my energy | |
A path that I rehearse | |
A cycle on repeat | |
Life is like a lion and i' m dying at it' s feet | |
I roll another a sweet | |
Check my muted Treo | |
I' ve seemed to miss the plot | |
too busy caught up in the broll | |
My eye up to the keyhole | |
Scared to turn the knob | |
and go out on my own | |
Instead I blend in with the mob | |
My memory bank the only thing I tend to rob | |
and every time I' m thrown the lob i' m out of Dodge | |
It' s hard | |
On the blvd | |
and other cliches | |
The type of bullshit that I' m feeding self these days | |
Corrosion on my relays | |
One day my mirror shows | |
an Emp in new clothes | |
exposed | |
Aesop Rock: | |
I mow a dead lawn | |
Aim for the alpha | |
Ten claws deck the halls of Valhalla | |
Not a man or receptacle for crestfallen matter | |
Never tempered or pressed into patterns | |
But just won' t die | |
Instead of palpitation from the plasma | |
Pumping disenchanting anecdotes | |
And antiquated data at ' em | |
I get these headaches that climb down into my stomach | |
Then off in my extremities and out into the public | |
In a flood of shadow puppetry | |
Something in the air | |
Got a tiny pull of energy becoming self aware | |
Its recognizing family in alpha numeric characters | |
Scenery and deities with unassuming avatars | |
Close encounters exacerbate his condition | |
From placid to a bastion of classic misdirection | |
Tune into the Casio adventures | |
When the rest of me can barely form a God damn sentence! |