Shall we use needles or knives to realign your spine?
|
the tissue degenerates so rapidly
|
perhaps it proves it is the time to cover up your face
|
and smile at me to see if I am out of sight,
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denying ventricle flow revel in your plight tonight,
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you're such a wonderful person to know
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and my name will rest in utter disdain
|
my resentment receives its wings for flight
|
you deceitfully stroll on just the same into your holy light
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With music destroyed, we'll only create noise
|
sweet dissonance is all that you'll have left
|
we'll dance across its grave
|
the art of singing empty praise with knives of hope and peace stab art to death
|
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I've watched it on its drugs
|
and I've seen the doctors shrug cerebellums withered up,
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the heart is black
|
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No scalpel, pill or stitch, no religious sales pitch
|
will ever bring the art that's dying back
|
and so we are the heirs, of this glowing lack of care our hearts in one discord
|
we all cry out for blood and spit we clap, the amps are feeding back
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my heart is filled with the one to whom I shout
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And glowing you speak in the friendliest tongue in sentiments of gold
|
and oh the sweetest songs are sung and the sweetest lies are told
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so spread this virus and seek yourself you pursue it quite relentlessly when Sunday comes
|
you'll raise hands to sing what a glorious sight to see
|
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Yet I see true art, I see her, and I see you
|
and Father you inspire me to sing to you
|
you inspire me to sing to you
|
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Burn all the flags and the money, sacrifice and laugh
|
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The light in your eyes reflects and I see myself
|
and all I want to be for you I'll give everything,
|
just to linger on your lips and feel your fingertips, you are an angel
|
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Art is not the world, art is in our heart
|
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And so I am the prince of sounds that make ears ring
|
my princess kiss me with your sweet lips and oh,
|
my heart will sing if art is in yourself,
|
or in a class at school if art is ego and selfishness,
|
and at the mercy of primitive tools
|
good-byes in screams and screeches
|
and bury these knives in your heart
|
no paintings or poems to let you live on
|
we've seen the last of art as servants and lovers
|
we wash your feet and cry out into the dark the noise, the beauty,
|
the love you bring me stabs these knives right into art art is not the world,
|
art is in our hearts
|
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Stab art to death...
|
|
-----------------
|
Stabbing Art To Death
|
| Showbread |
