| Mash the buttons, knock knock, never yield
|
| Phobias in motion blowing smoke into the sterile field
|
| Wonkavator up beyond the seraphim, terra beneath the keratin
|
| Every bit precariously jerry-rigged
|
| His helmet is a case of Bud, he factor in the paper cuts
|
| Corrugated cockpit, I’m not exactly Major Tom
|
| Buzzed Aldrin, I can’t count backwards
|
| Ten, one, someone get this buzzard to the Matmos
|
| Ten thousand hours addressing open beaks
|
| Exiting the atmosphere with no green to chroma key
|
| Greebles on the body, tin cans on the bumper
|
| Slip into the freezing ether like a pea coat from his mother
|
| How much interstellar freedom can he reasonably suffer?
|
| More than you can feed through a shutter
|
| I use a phony voice when I’m yelling, «Nobody's home»
|
| I’m a liar, but I wouldn’t say I’m wrong
|
| I ain’t really seen land in a minute
|
| AWOL spaceman, wave to the Mrs
|
| Faint transmission after nothing for the summer
|
| I have never seen so many colors
|
| Uh, ayy
|
| The human heart tattoo move in a hard vacuum
|
| Only back to pay a bill or maybe fill a cart with cat food
|
| I’m shredded, smelling like I just stepped off a charred capsule, I did
|
| That’s not imaginary ash in his wig
|
| That’s rounding Cygnus with a souvenir from galaxy quest
|
| I know it sound like myth and magic, but the shrapnel commits
|
| I give a fuck about a factory scent, we mostly play to the fringe
|
| They figure, «What's a little tape on the wings?»
|
| A little glue, a little paint, a little staple and string
|
| You won’t believe how far the garbage when that radio ping
|
| Behold a view or two where you could lose your voice at the moon
|
| I hope you like your beef and veggies with the moisture removed
|
| Dig it, the low rider, lower the gold visor
|
| Nosedive guided by the ghost of Laika, my heavens
|
| Slow drive, side-eye stealthy
|
| When can we expect you?
|
| Why would you expect me?
|
| I ain’t really seen land in a minute
|
| AWOL spaceman, wave to the Mrs
|
| Faint transmission after nothing for the summer
|
| I have never seen so many colors
|
| Tangentially related in the sense of one’s environment
|
| Informing what they’re made of
|
| There was a ghost who broke it all up into tiny numbers
|
| And dated vector graphics and New York Times puzzles
|
| Who struggled knowing love as more than boring data entry
|
| More reported from an orbit all his own, to say it gently
|
| I’m reporting from an orbit all my own, to say it gently
|
| Catch a wave in the jalopy down to burn up on re-entry
|
| Man the laser, do you copy? |
| Keep invaders on the business end
|
| Autopilot zeroes in on zero wind for pissing in
|
| Fixer-upper, she putt like a Plymouth Duster
|
| From bucket to mothership, if you’re up for a little sunburn, stat
|
| Neighbors at the mercy of a thin wall
|
| One side nap, one satellite pinball
|
| Fun size asteroids pingin' off the cabin
|
| Ping, ping, the soundtrack of shrinking into blackness
|
| I blink through 4D, droid sitting bitch scorned
|
| The voice of destroy and rebuild
|
| Who rose above the partly cloudy counting on a Galaga hack
|
| His only carry-on's a napkin of math
|
| From packed in a menagerie to cheese and crackers at the apogee
|
| Add a little finding God and trying not to atrophy, um
|
| I know you’re whispering about me at the corner store
|
| «We've seen the glowing light from under his apartment door»
|
| I ain’t really seen land in a minute
|
| AWOL spaceman, wave to the Mrs
|
| Faint transmission after nothing for the summer
|
| I have never seen so many colors |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Button Masher, artist - Aesop Rock. Album song Spirit World Field Guide, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп