I don¡¯t need a reservation
|
to inhabit my own station
|
Honey St. is hard to swallow
|
But I got orders to follow
|
from higher legislation
|
|
Reason¡¯s got no reason to be here
|
We don¡¯t operate in your tri-mensional sphere
|
But there¡¯s nothing like isolation
|
when you¡¯re singing for salvation
|
But to be solo(w) is just that
|
|
Dirt is not an opposition
|
To bar white-trash coalition
|
Maturity is not our style
|
like junkyards to grow wild
|
Not a standard transmission
|
|
It¡¯s a 3:00 a.m. religion
|
Soulitude a group decision
|
Sucrose levels pop the roof
|
And humor brews at 180 proof
|
When friends become pigeons
|
|
Keep your problems to yourself
|
Let them bother no one else
|
And we can live freely
|
In piles of dirt paintings and profanity
|
And if you need to speak to me
|
I will be hidden safely
|
In my underground cavern of sleep and humidity
|
So pass the dust and dusty relics
|
Reflecting the past
|
When someone asks you how you are
|
There¡¯s only one answer for them
|
And it goes: I¡¯m doin¡¯ alright
|
Did I mention that I¡¯m broke?
|
|
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|
Lumas
|
| Gruvis Malt |
