Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Don't Touch Dead Animals, artist - Kayo Dot. Album song Split, in the genre Метал
Date of issue: 09.12.2006
Record label: Holy Roar
Song language: English
Don't Touch Dead Animals |
Part one the song’s begun |
Around and around the needle slinks |
And with each passing bar |
The circle shrinks |
Round and round and round she goes |
And if reversed the circle grows |
A hazy regard tethers me to the redbrick hill |
Where it’s always an early, misty grey |
Whose eminence lay in the peas beyond the wall |
And corralled its cloudy eye black to bleat |
Some held out gusty day compelling me to give up |
Constantly moving around buckets in a room |
To catch blood only visible to the robin in grey |
And blurred into the carpet by the stairs a rosy visionaire |
Purposefully early came the ivy-gartered day |
Sending to bed all the greater creatures and rousing every ruminant |
See each low animal with a stomach on the wane |
Each morning baby’s eight perfect toes and the eight things they represent |
I’m guiding blind and bleeding bodies in the bay |
I’m guiding cold and congregating ululates by accident |
Part two |
We continue |
Each tiny groove the needle fill |
Contains within what smaller still |
Analogous ariel |
Becomes a paper |
With a hole |
Propellor of Death is a lucky whirl |
No shiny climby silver stair |
Found secret in a book I read |
Between pages one and a hundred-one |
Reveal a druggy follicle finding |
Sweat and pounded’round |
Some unliving pile |
Evasive with the vigor of vanity |
Lapse a dog is symmetrical |
Sermon on tape to remind me |
Translation of God into a comedy |
My constant shady articulation of form |
An outside exultante |
I feel it’s iron and brick to a greater profanation |
Here lies the exultation of an ordained aberrant |
There isn’t any more time to mend all the moss in the mound |
Each moist molecule replays the facts in an atomonous web of weary |
I’m telling you this because I don’t want us to be divided |
Sojourn and walk a sightless vocation through the murky mezzanine |
I’m standing atop the crystalline winter weaving |
That troubles itself to sink in the skyless morning divided |
Over and over, again and again, the whistling |
Of the spectral bird that I’m riding |
A parochial fistula in the furrow of a holy bazaar |
Behold the gasp that’s my inevitable punctuation |
I can’t stand in the sight of the eyeless morning divisa |
Unpopular methods of cosmogonal factuous inimity uncreatin |
What i see is a marble spiralling 'round a negative drain |