Where there's no smoke,
|
We've been burned alive, hearing two-cent mind cut us down to size.
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Dancing with the spectre of unsolicited conjecture.
|
While the emperor, he sold his clothes for opening slots on local shows.
|
But these comment of ennui aside,
|
this boy paid to enjoy the ride
|
with kids who fight their battles
|
not with cannons, but with rattles.
|
It was an eye for an eye about a year ago, now it's all "I told you so."
|
Always had the guts somehow, so nothing's gonna stop me now.
|
But when I hear it from old allies, boy, well, I get sidetracked.
|
You can have it, kid, it's yours
|
And you'll find me face-down, bloated blue on the banks of the Trash-Talk River.
|
So press my shirt and fetch me a tie. Set to work on my obituary-ai.
|
With great foresight, just a laugh, it's the same as my epitaph.
|
Here lies a mouthy kid,
|
Raised by a picket fence
|
To mean what he says
|
When he screams.
|
Always had the guts somehow, so nothing's gonna stop me now.
|
I've been swingin' for the fences since you thought to build them.
|
I always liked 'em low.
|
Nevermind the hits I take. It's all about the punches I throw.
|
You're picking bones at the wrong damn table, boy.
|
Swallow hard, I'm going to serve it to you now.
|
How could one slip from a grace so small as to be dismissed by a single-file style,
|
obscure hardcore archivists?
|
Well I'm still reeling from that fall.
|
|
-----------------
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The Starving Artist Weight-Loss Program Works... To Varying Degree... Somethetimes
|
| Bombs Over Providence |
