Too many lies when I was seventeen And now I'm keeping up time with you Short sounds of apocalypse And my world's torn out of view It's always the same
She pounds out a frantic pulse We count up all the baseless laws to get by But she's grown She's grown so cold and left between Haunted by what might
We're caving in around a portion of progress We suffer sounds through a hole in the sign Climbing down where the pressures we purchase Can we pretend
Inside the shallow selfish rhymes I forced myself alive There's a sound as your desperation burns me to survive I can't decide Stay away from me, I'm
[Instrumental]
[Words and Music by Ted Kirkpatrick] Vision from the past As you see yourself floating to shore Tragedy that the water depth wasn't Three feet more
Erased into nothingness, escaping the memories A vast pain slowly consumes, regurgitated intestines erupts Genetic invention created from science Lethal
emanation, outflow, overwhelming fuel unperceived instrument grounding daily duel stimuli of passions correspond to bleak, antiquated features of prehistory
crisis observers feel for one victim from two parties guilty with cold repose with inward hate some defend both some abstain try to pretend the monster
picture from world power to servant state from self-sufficient to tied and raped civilizations clashed one god prevailed occupied by those your fathers
[instrumental]
imprinting of solid crisp forms into soft clay as culture is the architect of cognitive mazeway walls and corridors simulate righteous edifice foreign
analyzing fragments of my bodily experience lonely flights on windy bridges noble quiet southern sun melodies neatly mold onto internalized curvature
waves of strength and angry rapture surge in scenarios where harm or gain to reproduction grows fight or flight response triggered by rules by objects
I saw a young white boy open up the door For an old black lady who was walkin? in the store And it hit me, yeah, it me, things ain't all that bad I saw
I wrote the president But I got no reply He claims he tells the truth He writes it in the sky The taxman's at the door Though he never seems polite They
We gotta get that something, That little bit of anything, Anyway, Gotta do it for the dough, Gotta go, 'cause money makes you smile, Don't ya know Those