Personal Journalist 歌词

歌曲	Personal Journalist
歌手	Sage Francis
专辑	Personal Journals
下载	Image LRC TXT

	作曲 : Francis
	Sage Francis
	Personal Journalist 1968-2001
	He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
	Because they're still debating over what "rhyme skill" is.
	Got Sick of
	Waiting...for time killers to get over their murder raps.
	Then he sold his own shirt off his back
	For cheap exposure.
	He'd seek for closure but stayed open minded.
	Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
	Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra-violence.
	Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
	A bleeding soldier knows the science.
	He does the math quick and writes
	Without having to think twice.
	Without asking for advice.
	Letting the scalps peel.
	Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
	His death mask conceals his face paint.
	It feels like a safe place, but it ain't.
	Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don't.
	He's not a real saint.
	Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
	And that's not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled to crack open to extract his blood cells from.
	When he comes back from hell again,
	You'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
	Sage Francis
	Anti-socialite.
	Secret Admirer.
	Student Loaner.
	Continental
	Drifter. Professional
	Bootlegger.
	Spin Doctor.
	Self Referentialist.
	Road Runner.
	Personal Journalist.
	Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
	Heard they're concerned with making the
	Earth shift.
	These kid games are silly.
	When all art is signed anonymous,
	He'll turn that
	Big Bang Theory into a
	Small Pop
	Hypothesis.
	Sage Francis.
	Death Merchant. 1968-2001
	Devoted son...father to none...
	Husband to something soulless and didn't spend his life with who he loved.
	The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove. "His time is up!"
	He's still the type poised to make a come back.
	Kill the white noise until the sun's black.
	Moonwalk around
	New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
	Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
	The California
	Dream sequences end quick.
	Couldn't find middle ground in little towns on some
	Midwest trip.
	He stood for something...but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
	In an avant garden of
	Eden. "Get off the cross!"
	Of course we need the wood to burn a
	Godless heathen.
	Catch him red handed...only if his palms are bleeding.
	Sage Francis
	Non-Prophet.
	Artificially
	Intelligent.
	Avant Guardian
	Angel Dust
	Mite. 1968-2001
	It's been a pleasure.
	It's been a pleasure
	But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face.

	zuo qu : Francis
	Sage Francis
	Personal Journalist 19682001
	He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
	Because they' re still debating over what " rhyme skill" is.
	Got Sick of
	Waiting... for time killers to get over their murder raps.
	Then he sold his own shirt off his back
	For cheap exposure.
	He' d seek for closure but stayed open minded.
	Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
	Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultraviolence.
	Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
	A bleeding soldier knows the science.
	He does the math quick and writes
	Without having to think twice.
	Without asking for advice.
	Letting the scalps peel.
	Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
	His death mask conceals his face paint.
	It feels like a safe place, but it ain' t.
	Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don' t.
	He' s not a real saint.
	Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
	And that' s not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled to crack open to extract his blood cells from.
	When he comes back from hell again,
	You' ll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
	Sage Francis
	Antisocialite.
	Secret Admirer.
	Student Loaner.
	Continental
	Drifter. Professional
	Bootlegger.
	Spin Doctor.
	Self Referentialist.
	Road Runner.
	Personal Journalist.
	Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
	Heard they' re concerned with making the
	Earth shift.
	These kid games are silly.
	When all art is signed anonymous,
	He' ll turn that
	Big Bang Theory into a
	Small Pop
	Hypothesis.
	Sage Francis.
	Death Merchant. 19682001
	Devoted son... father to none...
	Husband to something soulless and didn' t spend his life with who he loved.
	The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove. " His time is up!"
	He' s still the type poised to make a come back.
	Kill the white noise until the sun' s black.
	Moonwalk around
	New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
	Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
	The California
	Dream sequences end quick.
	Couldn' t find middle ground in little towns on some
	Midwest trip.
	He stood for something... but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
	In an avant garden of
	Eden. " Get off the cross!"
	Of course we need the wood to burn a
	Godless heathen.
	Catch him red handed... only if his palms are bleeding.
	Sage Francis
	NonProphet.
	Artificially
	Intelligent.
	Avant Guardian
	Angel Dust
	Mite. 19682001
	It' s been a pleasure.
	It' s been a pleasure
	But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face.

	zuò qǔ : Francis
	Sage Francis
	Personal Journalist 19682001
	He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
	Because they' re still debating over what " rhyme skill" is.
	Got Sick of
	Waiting... for time killers to get over their murder raps.
	Then he sold his own shirt off his back
	For cheap exposure.
	He' d seek for closure but stayed open minded.
	Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
	Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultraviolence.
	Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
	A bleeding soldier knows the science.
	He does the math quick and writes
	Without having to think twice.
	Without asking for advice.
	Letting the scalps peel.
	Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
	His death mask conceals his face paint.
	It feels like a safe place, but it ain' t.
	Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don' t.
	He' s not a real saint.
	Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
	And that' s not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled to crack open to extract his blood cells from.
	When he comes back from hell again,
	You' ll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
	Sage Francis
	Antisocialite.
	Secret Admirer.
	Student Loaner.
	Continental
	Drifter. Professional
	Bootlegger.
	Spin Doctor.
	Self Referentialist.
	Road Runner.
	Personal Journalist.
	Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
	Heard they' re concerned with making the
	Earth shift.
	These kid games are silly.
	When all art is signed anonymous,
	He' ll turn that
	Big Bang Theory into a
	Small Pop
	Hypothesis.
	Sage Francis.
	Death Merchant. 19682001
	Devoted son... father to none...
	Husband to something soulless and didn' t spend his life with who he loved.
	The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove. " His time is up!"
	He' s still the type poised to make a come back.
	Kill the white noise until the sun' s black.
	Moonwalk around
	New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
	Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
	The California
	Dream sequences end quick.
	Couldn' t find middle ground in little towns on some
	Midwest trip.
	He stood for something... but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
	In an avant garden of
	Eden. " Get off the cross!"
	Of course we need the wood to burn a
	Godless heathen.
	Catch him red handed... only if his palms are bleeding.
	Sage Francis
	NonProphet.
	Artificially
	Intelligent.
	Avant Guardian
	Angel Dust
	Mite. 19682001
	It' s been a pleasure.
	It' s been a pleasure
	But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
	Get out my weathered face.

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