a good portion of devotion on sale
|
to the stale-skinned rummage-happy
|
everyday troop
|
got my bells on: it keeps my ears ringing
|
and peers watching
|
wishing i'd stop
|
quietly judging with my mouth open
|
and hands on the switch
|
so when they stop the earth
|
who's ass will your head end up in?
|
it's most likely you'll never get
|
the perfect tip
|
or learn to take hints
|
i want a new television
|
'cause my books are getting old
|
and i'd watch the "news and advertisements"
|
and find a new way to change my life
|
|
guaranteed of course
|
because the names we trust
|
have, and will always be, the only answer
|
girls like to hold hands
|
i had my life squeezed out once or twice
|
so let's call it even...and well-balanced
|
like a crock of shit
|
or a hell of a life
|
on a walking mess to the upscale
|
where they sniff dreams off fingernails
|
and rate life on a scale of personal gain
|
mapping out the universe:
|
a wife and kids with no name
|
and a big house atop a hill
|
that blocks out the sun for those
|
who can't afford it
|
throw some crumbs to the starving idealists
|
do they not bleed the same? are they not men?
|
|
we got bigger desks now
|
and all my ideas are carefully hidden
|
on crumpled paper at my feet
|
starving for attention
|
when the demon barely blinks out of this life
|
now i'm on the north shore
|
laughing at my dot com buddies who got laid off
|
who needs references anyway?
|
i've been working for god
|
in all the wrong social circles
|
|
i could have been a programmer
|
but this much i still am:
|
not a man or a teacher
|
just a student in denial
|
with more to give then they could possibly take
|
when there's nothing left to disagree with
|
i'll drop off the face of the planet
|
and give mtv-land back to its rightful owners...
|
|
you can have it
|
|
there's a replica of comfort
|
and a false sense of stability
|
the difference between a blow-up doll
|
floating in a bathtub with slit wrists
|
and a lost friend
|
only calling to borrow money
|
all these days are beneath you
|
there are floors to slip
|
and break your neck on
|
and bottles of vodka you can't see through
|
parasite to parasite
|
what's eating me is eating you
|
the absolute hardest thing about being here
|
is how you wish you could fast-forward
|
the way it drags
|
now they got drugs and computers
|
to do that for you
|
until they can be you, and replace you
|
and convince you that they love you
|
never meant to harm anything so innocent
|
that you can't help but hope
|
it gets killed crossing in traffic
|
|
i promised myself
|
i wouldn't kill anything on this song
|
but you leave me no choice
|
'cause i can't complain
|
and can't believe i'm still
|
waiting for people, waiting for people
|
who overextend themselves by saying "hello"
|
i underestimated greediness
|
and how loneliness
|
will drive entire blocks to pigpile on television sets
|
all the clap-on distractions
|
and fade-away inspirations
|
are the reason i can barely
|
hold a one-sided conversation
|
or sit still without knees shaking
|
i pull the hair out of my head
|
and wait for bats to fill the room
|
but all i get is a receding hairline
|
and another shit-eating grin
|
it's sad to leave anyone...
|
|
-----------------
|
Teepee On The Highway Blues
|
Sole |