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Now baby get up out that water, |
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Cuz every castle in the sand's bout to falter, |
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It's like the Rock of Gibraltar, |
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Another sheep selfishly sent to the slaughter, holler, |
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(It's gonna be one of those songs,) |
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He lives like an audition, |
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He skipped his intuition, |
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Living like a nerve, on feelings and superstitions, |
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He swerves through classes and curves through lasses, |
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And passes a million dirty looks, he shuffles books, |
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His every moment is staged, He feels he's plagued with this playwright, |
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Who fails to give this character some insight, |
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Oh, and every time he gets the cue to speak his mind, |
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Enter stage left, an understudy steps on his lines, |
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Not a word, spoke, he goes unheard, |
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Is this a joke? His melodrama's now the theater bout the absurd, |
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It seems his author serendipities the music, comedy, drama, |
|
Weathered and haggardly enters the muse in tragedy, cool, |
|
Change his script, and change the block, and change roles, |
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Pulls the gun from his bag and gets to cockin', |
|
Pulls the trigger at the kids who kept him as an outsider, |
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Turns that shit on himself, so he can finally meet his writer, |
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Little kids, ok, |
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Little kid walks out in the street, |
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Man behind the wheel looks for change under the seat, |
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Little girl belly hurt, she holds strong, |
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Woman gives up hope, says it's been too long, |
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Peace, love, unity, respect, |
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Parties over, dancin' with a needle in his neck, |
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Bright eyes, they be dark when dad comes home, |
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Pretends to count sheep so that she'll be left alone, |
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She only did for money once or twice, |
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Said he learned the true meaning of Minnesota nights, |
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A ??? sea breeze fixed his head, |
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Mother shakes and screams, tries to wake the dead, |
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Little kids live on incomplete, |
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Little kids trip without the prospect of a beat, |
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Steady comin' down from a roll all wrong, |
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Little kids stay little kids cuz growin' up is gone, |
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She was always well dressed, well groomed, well known, |
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But she hid behind a canvas the second she got home, |
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She loved to paint, nothin' in particular, |
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Just blues and grays, that's how she felt throughout her days, |
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Her landscape was shaped by friends and hangers-on, |
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From boys to the push-up bras they pulled on, |
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But she was always very wary, cuz popularity's scary, |
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Especially when sincerity rarely comes in clearly, |
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To her it was all fake, mock life, mock friends, |
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She wanted to paint it white, and start again, |
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She wrote letters to her little brother and mother, |
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And packed up her stuff, |
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Then she ran like water colors, |
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Now, a little change in scenery never hurt nothin' but still-life, |
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But still, life's been everything but real for her right? |
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Without her crew, she's like, without a clue, so like, |
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She don't know who she's like, know what I mean? |
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She found a crew she likes, started up new, |
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But the only thing left of her is the paint on her jeans, |
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So she'll be gone soon |
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Little kid walks out in the street... |
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Now baby get up out that water... |
