I could make 'em all dance, or I can sleep
I can walk with a limp and make your step feel incomplete
People are made of match sticks, life is bred of flames
Noted the craft work bore the last smirk of the Damien mainframe
My boxcar siphons third rail juice from lost poets
Inhabit ocean bottom with a bin of rotten scapegoat pardons Note to self:
Don't bargain at martyr parliament rallies
Where participants squeeze in last giggle then widdle sacrificial finales
I can tie my bootlaces alone, save the knee deep offerings
Sorta brings you coughing bunk persona to light
I might, Build anti-malignant railroads, find you, and lay tracks adjacent
Just to scream "fuck off" as the engine pulls out the station
What should we do with a thousand drunken sailors?
"Kill 'em all, locate their family address, release a mailer:"
(Dear Sir or Madame, your son or daughter's embarrassed humankind
Consuming booze and gut-fuel, till their cruise had crossed the line)
I spin gold
He bats a dirty lash toward the nursery class act impressionable bubble
(Y'all could've been more subtle when polluting paradise gene puddle)
Man, huddles make us look like cool peeps and I'm trying to school sheep
Toward the right idea, see ya
This basic divine subsidiary buffs gunner syllable logic, fold origami
Plantation shut
Does this picket fence hang on to your dreams kitten?
You'll probably never hear this song
Let alone sip the mission long enough to listen
I can walk with a limp and make your step feel incomplete
People are made of match sticks, life is bred of flames
Noted the craft work bore the last smirk of the Damien mainframe
My boxcar siphons third rail juice from lost poets
Inhabit ocean bottom with a bin of rotten scapegoat pardons Note to self:
Don't bargain at martyr parliament rallies
Where participants squeeze in last giggle then widdle sacrificial finales
I can tie my bootlaces alone, save the knee deep offerings
Sorta brings you coughing bunk persona to light
I might, Build anti-malignant railroads, find you, and lay tracks adjacent
Just to scream "fuck off" as the engine pulls out the station
What should we do with a thousand drunken sailors?
"Kill 'em all, locate their family address, release a mailer:"
(Dear Sir or Madame, your son or daughter's embarrassed humankind
Consuming booze and gut-fuel, till their cruise had crossed the line)
I spin gold
He bats a dirty lash toward the nursery class act impressionable bubble
(Y'all could've been more subtle when polluting paradise gene puddle)
Man, huddles make us look like cool peeps and I'm trying to school sheep
Toward the right idea, see ya
This basic divine subsidiary buffs gunner syllable logic, fold origami
Plantation shut
Does this picket fence hang on to your dreams kitten?
You'll probably never hear this song
Let alone sip the mission long enough to listen
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