| I am limbo, waiting on a window
|
| stuck inside an interval, new is unattainable
|
| colored by a label’s name, labeled by geography
|
| on a dying dark horse placing
|
| I am a plagiarist before picking up a pen
|
| between a sonic precedent and the age I represent
|
| old enough to own the stolen noise I make
|
| like an arrogant ingrate
|
| Only noteworthy for our loyalty
|
| to forefathers who own all we do
|
| most of whom I never revered
|
| never needed or never even heard
|
| emulating individuals
|
| cloning the new originals
|
| followers for gangland ritual
|
| I am a spokesman for a derivative
|
| traveling salesman selling old narrative
|
| true sounds of liberty straining through my voice
|
| Only heard in echo. |
| White noise
|
| once an introvert, I’m spewing my entire worth
|
| regurgitating their words. |
| Vomit
|
| Second coming of second strings
|
| impersonating the real thing
|
| beyond gods that wrote bad songs
|
| or drug addicts dead and gone
|
| who wrote the song that stole my voice?
|
| for a scene that made my choices
|
| And the name they chose for me
|
| And the name chosen for me
|
| Finally here I am. |
| Said to be made again
|
| posing weathered statues
|
| standing on old attributes
|
| getting sick of this feeling ridiculous
|
| I’m an over told joke’s punch line
|
| I am limbo, waiting on that window
|
| resonating old song. |
| «Goodnight, so long»
|
| Scraping the brand off my forehead
|
| at the speed of nearly dead
|
| under the vow I never made
|
| to the sound I’ve already betrayed
|
| It’s the name they chose for me
|
| It’s the name they chose for me
|
| Follow us for gangland ritual. |