1. |
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|
That's right, told you, "Fuck out of my house!"
That's right, told you, "Fuck out of my house!"
You waste of cum.
You waste of space.
Do as I say and fuck off from this place.
I was a man at your age.
That's right, told you, "Fuck out of my house!"
That's right, told you, "Fuck out of my house!"
I'll drill this eviction notice to your chest.
You're worthless and you were a mistake.
I was a man at your age.
Piece of shit.
It's your fault that my life passed me by.
It's your fault that my life passed me by.
It's your fault that my life passed me by.
It's your fault that my life passed me by.
|
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2. |
Deep Story, Bro
03:11
|
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|
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
The future comes calling
Walking on your grave
Future comes calling
With a bill in your name
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
Everyone
Standing in line
to be fucked
Everyone will be
The future comes calling
Walking on your grave
Future comes calling
With a bill in your name
Head in the sand
Standing in line to be fucked
Stick to the plan
Everyone will be fucked
No room in the inn
Standing in line to be fucked
Name’s not on the list
Everyone will be fucked
The future comes calling
Walking on your grave
Future comes calling
With a bill in your name
|
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3. |
Baby Bird's Exit Wounds
02:10
|
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|
Shoot a baby bird
in the neck
with a BB gun
to kill him so much faster
than when yelling
at his mother
within earshot
of his crib;
poisoning his pillows,
poisoning everything
he thought he knew
about Rockwell dreams.
Don’t you dare call him your fucking son
when you live in the back
of some side chick’s car,
hot-boxing like you don’t have a baby at home.
[He's not your bastard!]
Eggshells of a mockingbird
are crushed
beneath your feet,
and diamond rings
will rust onto another
woman’s hand.
So, if you blame the mother
for a shattered
looking glass,
don’t come back in 16 years
expecting open arms,
you piece of shit!
Don’t you dare call him your fucking son
when you live in the back
of some side chick’s car,
hot-boxing like you don’t have a baby at home.
[He's not your bastard!]
The nest you left
for him has sharpened
twigs that stick
his back like a fucking knife.
Don’t you dare compare our fucking scars [blood]
or calluses.
I'm not your blood
do not call this family [I'm not your fucking family]
Don’t you dare compare our fucking blood
ever again
ever again
ever again
ever again
And if you don’t like it,
fight me
you fucking prick.
|
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4. |
Dead Books
05:06
|
|||
|
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
Rusted spirals in the spine of notebooks
houses dead skin of my fingers.
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
Paper cuts bite me like dobermans
as I tear out pages
where I was a super man.
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
I've had enough of these words.
Their soma's not working this time.
I've had enough
of this picture perfect
poetry that permeates
through blurry teenage angst.
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
I'll make these pages swell with emptiness
and no reminders of those better days.
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
Anemic, leather bound.
Wedding bells on mute.
Planets that I made are bursting.
I can't read my words.
I can't read my handwriting anymore.
I've had enough of these words.
Their soma's not working this time.
I just want to stop
hiding between blue lines,
watching clocks spill ink all over everything.
I just want to stop
hiding between blue lines,
watching clocks spill ink all over everything
everything
everything
everything
everything
These planets are bursting
as I float through other people's stars.
These planets are bursting
as I float through other people's stars.
These planets are bursting
as I float through other people's stars.
These planets are bursting
with no one to pull me out from outer space.
So I keep lit matches
close to blank pages
because I don't know
if I have anything left to say that matter.
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tudors Long Beach, California
P.O.C. fronted Noise Punk from the Los Angeles area. Always lower case the "t."
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