Turning over in interrupted slumber,
|
You ponder others, growing ever wakeful,
|
You've locked the vermin in the other bedroom,
|
To be so perfect causes you to feel so thankful,
|
Now find the fault because your boyfriend can't read,
|
Reflecting on to you is all the bitterness you need,
|
So unhappy, yet so preoccupied,
|
Never found beaten down with your forked tongue tied.
|
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
|
Queen dependency is cowering, please don't be confused,
|
You are vacant and submissive, receptive to abuse,
|
Virtue isn't tangible, and sense of self is dated,
|
Names constant on your cracked lips are now eviscerated,
|
Your spine is made of metal, Your veins are bound in electric tape,
|
And all along an impulse lights at random in your face,
|
You cough up an offering and forget which words are lies,
|
Then your skull echoes a singeing pop, as your brain is cauterized.
|
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
|
Within the walls I hear all of its legs,
|
There must be so many to carry it over our heads,
|
Seething and unsettled and oh such a let down,
|
And now these rusty spokes inside my head are making such a grating sound.
|
|
Your legacy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
Your eulogy is like poetry,
|
But your mouth is like a magazine.
|
|
Yeah! Yeah!
|
Yeah! Yeah!
|
Yeah! Woah!
|
|
-----------------
|
Mouth Like A Magazine
|
| Showbread |
