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Friday, November 04, 2005
When in doubt use duct-tape.
While in Rome check out the
bulletproof pope-mobile.
Now that's faith in action.
Driving around in circles.
A blind man hears your cryptic linguistics.
The hounds smell the blasts of a shotgun.
The love junkie scores a quick fix.
I undo your buttons one by one.
Pick your pocket,
steal the keys to unlock it.
I rock it and run smack into a wall.
Flat faced and nervous,
I can't thinko, I need a drinko,
try ginko, I like the stinko.
Everythings new standing next to you.
I'm bloated and internally drowning
from too much water.
Why bother selling myself out for a dream
that breathes in fantasy?
To manifest what?
To "know fear".
To NO FEAR.
...Moments of truth...
Somebody stole my identity.
Who is this person?--i get so nervous around~
A windmill and curveball.
The backcatcher stauls and calls time-out.
The pitcher has forgotten all of the signals.
The coach doesn't know what to do.
The leftfielder remembers the punchline.
The horny runner checks out base #2.
At the end of the inning beginning with you.
Swing batter swing.
It's nothing new to let love go.
Making mountains out of little rocks.
Painting pictures of the days.
When all I really want to say...is
(fill in the blank)
stare into space
imagine if she could see you now,
with hives on your face
and loves saving grace
bowing down.
Wil shakes the rattle.
"You're a romantic genius."
I rebuddle, "But it's only in my mind."
"Why you say that?" Wil tilts.
"Cuz every fucking time I try,
it's either me tarzan, you jane,
or the chickenshit sound of a dead-line!"
"Oh" Wil shrugs, " when was the last time?"
"Nevermind" I sigh.
There are fourty-four reasons my shoulders are sore.
1. The pigeon peeking over my shoulder.
2. Guitar straps.
33. Headbangin' & dancin' my skinny ass off.
44. The weight of the world.
I need a shoulder massage from one sexy mutha'
so she can feel what a knotty girl I am.
I don't want to hear about rumours on the drive.
My friend Bert knows I exist.
So what nobody can see me taking the backstreet boys on.
Musical toys making out with the songs.
So what?
Big dork stutter cork.
Fork you.
You better get out now while the gettings good.
Hang up before anyone answers.
Go back to the drawing board and call someone who cares.
The news 'aint gonna report it,
and you've been missing for a month.
Hiding in a bombshell.
The studio is soundproof and you can't hear the war well.
But the tracks rock, the albums brewing,
and now it's an even score.
Shoot away.
Skulls and bones.
There will be a day
when we no longer feed you our tears.
posted by Milli
at 11/04/2005 06:19:00 AM
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