[Aesop Rock]
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Shit... Vanessa, what time is it? aw, fuck ... I'm late again.
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Zoom in to the fuming of an aggravated breed
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Via the study of post-adolescent agitated seeds.
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Half the patients wasted self prior to commencement,
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So I focus on the urban Oxygen samples, the half that made it breathe.
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This old Pompeii impression sways infection in 12 steps or less
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And cretins swiftly tippy-toe on hard to swallow barter concepts.
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The give-it/get-it never let itself past wrought iron stubbornness.
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Martyrs talk funny causes into a harvesting Spartacus and so on...
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I throw long Hail Mary bombs
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Toward cookie-cutter Mother Nature's bedazzled synthetic fabrics.
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Life treats the peasants like
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They tried to fuck his woman while he slept inside,
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While they're merely chasing perfectionist emblems.
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When the clock strikes Nine
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I'll be waking with the best of the routine caffeine team players
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For the cycle of it.
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Under a dusted angel harp-string, Big Brother is watching
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My odometer like buzzard to fallen elk, hawkin' stealth.
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We got babies, rubber stamps, and briefcase parts.
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We on some door-to-door now,
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Order ten dollars or more we'll shove it down your throat for free.
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I sacrifice my inborn tendencies for copper pennies
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From one commander 'gimme that' so he can retain baby fat.
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Mega biter snake bedlam,
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Holocaust freak heckle shiesty brain headroom shake planet.
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Make a move, pause, make a move, break cannon.
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Bend barrel 180 u-turn, squeeze, end it.
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It's on like it's never been,
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It's bleeding well,
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It's bigger than a breadbox,
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It corrodes my leaky finance.
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I take my seat atop the Brooklyn Bridge
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With a Coke and a bag of chips
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To watch a thousand lemmings plummet
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Just because the first one slipped.
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Sometimes I laugh at victory, kissing these little question marks.
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I tend to underestimate my average.
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Just another bastard savage.
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Someday you'll all eat out of my cold hand
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Cuz every dog has its day
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At which point, I'll pull it away.
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We the American working population
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Hate the fact that eight hours a day
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Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us
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And we may not hate our jobs,
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But we hate jobs in general
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That don't have to do with fighting our own causes.
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We the American working population
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Hate the nine-to-five day-in/day-out
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When we'd rather be supporting ourselves
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By being paid to perfect the pasttimes
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That we have harbored based solely on the fact
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That it makes us smile if it sounds dope...
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It's the Year of the Silkworm.
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Everything I built burned yesterday.
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Let's display the purpose that these stilts serve.
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Elevate the spreading of the silk germ.
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Trying to weave a web but all I believe in is dead.
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Nah brother, it's the Year of the Jackal.
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Saddle up on high horse.
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My torch forced Polaris embarrassed.
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Shackle up the hassle by the doom and legend marriage.
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I bought some new sneakers,
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I just hope my legacy matches.
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It's the Year of the Landshark.
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Dry as sand--parched--damn, get these men some water.
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They're out there being slaughtered
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In meaningless wars so you don't have to bother
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And can sit and soak the idiot box, trying to fuck their daughters.
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Man, it's the Year of the Orphan.
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Seated adjacent to the fireflies circling the torches on your porches.
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Trying to guard the fortress of a king they've never seen or met
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But all are trained to murder at the first sign of a threat.
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Maybe it's the Year of the Water Bug.
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Cockroach. Utter thug specimen.
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Fury spawned from dreaming of your next of kin.
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I'm still dealing with this mess I'm in.
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I've been the object of your ridicule.
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You've been a bitch lieutenant.
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God, it's the Year of the Underpaid Employee
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Spitting forty plus a week
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And trying to rape earth in my off time.
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You bored dizzy, I can't keep myself busy enough
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So you can run, run, run,
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And I'ma let you think you won.
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EVERYBODY!
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We the American working population
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Hate the fact that eight hours a day
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Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us
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And we may not hate our jobs,
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But we hate jobs in general
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That don't have to do with fighting our own causes.
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We the American working population
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Hate the nine to five day-in/day-out
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But we'd rather be supporting ourselves
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By being paid to perfect the pasttimes
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That we have harbored based solely on the fact
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That it makes us smile if it sounds dope.
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OUTRO
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Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen.
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Pour myself a cup of ambition.
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And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess,
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And if I never make it home today, God bless.
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Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen.
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Pour myself a cup of ambition.
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And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess,
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And if I never make it home today, God bless.
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9-5ers Anthem
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| Aesop Rock |
