| All that we wanted
|
| Were laws to defy
|
| You can keep these streets
|
| Me, I’ll take these skies
|
| But all our beliefs
|
| Turned out to be lies
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| (Tell em')
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here
|
| Sipping lukewarm water outta open grenades
|
| Rocking a fresh Sam Kinison coat and beret
|
| High School pep rally yelling vote for Bernade
|
| Drowning my vocals in that broken delay (yyeeaahh!)
|
| Let’s celebrate solitude, grand prize gold plated 'lectronic pocket
|
| So cool when I swim all the Manatees die
|
| I learned my cool tricks from Nick off of Family Ties
|
| And so I’m leanin'
|
| My crucifix earring gleaming
|
| There’s cotton 'round the frame dream sequence
|
| I talk real low like a genius (left alone)
|
| Yeah, so don’t walk this direction
|
| House party playing Twister on a autism spectrum
|
| Dark poor and lazy
|
| Till I dye my eyebrows like Martin Scorsese
|
| And all of a sudden y’all respect my art form, crazy
|
| Huh, who’d to thunk it?
|
| Started a new food service called «Chicken and the Crumpets»
|
| Saw ya moms and guitars sitting licking on the trumpets (oh)
|
| Cause your mothers disgusting
|
| All that we wanted
|
| Were laws to defy
|
| You can keep these streets
|
| Me, I’ll take these skies
|
| But all our beliefs
|
| Turned out to be lies
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| (Tell em')
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here
|
| Feeling so inadequate on a stretch of Crescent heights
|
| Those aren’t stars above me man, those are check your engine lights
|
| And all of my fondest memories compressed to precious megabytes
|
| So I mad to christ tabs
|
| As I address heads on pikes
|
| Everybody’s been sentenced to death in the computer lounge
|
| My lady’s got serial numbers scrawled on her pubic mound
|
| Dance crowds wearing death shrouds roaming in this music town
|
| But another pollutants dissipate when I’m zonin'
|
| My nigga it all makes sense when I’m zonin' (left alone)
|
| And all my time is spent treating home studios like panic rooms
|
| So rare and colorful pantaloons that turns into a pay day
|
| Now I vay-cay in the Cameroons
|
| I grew flowers in the sand and do
|
| So on my face the camera zooms
|
| But when the cloud of antimatter bloom
|
| Was from a wasted afternoon those florists become fascist goons
|
| Employers become fascist goons
|
| Ya get me? |
| (na dude)
|
| Treatin' my niggas like the rashest coons
|
| Handed this rash with the plastic spoons, come on
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here…
|
| (I mean sometimes I need
|
| I really just wanna disappear)
|
| All that we wanted
|
| Were laws to defy
|
| You can keep these streets
|
| Me, I’ll take these skies
|
| But all our beliefs
|
| Turned out to be lies
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| So, blink me, blink me away from here
|
| (Tell em')
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here
|
| Blink, blink, blink, blink
|
| Blink me, blink me away from here |