[Spoken intro]
Yeah, fuck it
[Verse 1]
All your wiles and painted plaster had finally fell from form
The time you whiled was bathed in laughter, the sunlight, bright and warm
And though you prayed the dark move faster, the day lasts just as long
The yarn once lit has closed its chapter and now, you sing night's song
The pain and regret and slow disdain, every thought that you cannot dismiss
Each time you escape one banal babushka cage, you see the vessel in which it sits
Why do you think you deserve this? When did your ego grow?
The grin you wear seems awful churlish, your outfits, just as so
Self-puppeted marionette plays poet, director and whole damn cast
But underneath that face, there lay it: a message from the past
The future's a coward, the present, mocking
So bust out those rotten rose-tinters
What's happened has flowered and I can hear it knocking
So get ready the salt and the tincture
[Chorus]
The rope's not voluntary, nor one that you can show
A noose that's tied so scarcely merely acts to keep you on your toes
[Verse 2]
Everything you've been's grown toxic, disguised by tinted dye
A thin veneer stained faux-quixotic, in shades of blatant lie
Pretend and fake, perfect your novel and sell it out for free
The soapbox in the sad man's hovel refuses to charge a fee
The Pan Man, the Wicked, the Stranded Cynic
The Fool in the Artist's clothing
The Emperor's New Album is free from common critics
And yet still, it lies victim to loathing
Yeah, fuck it
[Verse 1]
All your wiles and painted plaster had finally fell from form
The time you whiled was bathed in laughter, the sunlight, bright and warm
And though you prayed the dark move faster, the day lasts just as long
The yarn once lit has closed its chapter and now, you sing night's song
The pain and regret and slow disdain, every thought that you cannot dismiss
Each time you escape one banal babushka cage, you see the vessel in which it sits
Why do you think you deserve this? When did your ego grow?
The grin you wear seems awful churlish, your outfits, just as so
Self-puppeted marionette plays poet, director and whole damn cast
But underneath that face, there lay it: a message from the past
The future's a coward, the present, mocking
So bust out those rotten rose-tinters
What's happened has flowered and I can hear it knocking
So get ready the salt and the tincture
[Chorus]
The rope's not voluntary, nor one that you can show
A noose that's tied so scarcely merely acts to keep you on your toes
[Verse 2]
Everything you've been's grown toxic, disguised by tinted dye
A thin veneer stained faux-quixotic, in shades of blatant lie
Pretend and fake, perfect your novel and sell it out for free
The soapbox in the sad man's hovel refuses to charge a fee
The Pan Man, the Wicked, the Stranded Cynic
The Fool in the Artist's clothing
The Emperor's New Album is free from common critics
And yet still, it lies victim to loathing
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