Lyrics Black Rose - Cecil Otter

Black Rose

I hear «oohs!»
and «ahhs!», when I jump off my garage
People treat me like I’m dying for a cause cause I believe in God
Santa Clause, and The Easter Bunny
I’m hanging out with Lady Luck, and feeding her when her beaver’s hungry
Don’t need your money, don’t need your company
Do need that filthy middle finger out my cup of tea
Like, if it takes one to bleed
And two to make the bleeding stop;
I’d rather leave a trail of blood
Now it’s two-thousand-and-
And I’m still kicking like old habits
Still sticking with no address or mattress
Now, half this life spent in these skate shoes
Been spent walking to the beat of a breakthrough
I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers
Make a new fan, cut a rug and dupe later
New raider of the lost breaks and bass lines
Trying to discover some peace on the freight lines
Nine hollows and I’m feeling like a fifty-spot
Channeling my lady luck, see what that gypsy’s got
She’s looking up today, smiling at the thunderstorm
Playing her tiny violin that keep my hunger warm
While a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons
I write my songs singing, «So long!»
to all the heathens
Like, «Greetings to you, good riddance.»
It’s time for your bad come-back
So come back to the:
I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics
While I address my Minnesota ethics
Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don’t respect it
My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric
So who’s that peeking in my window?
Right now!
I don’t know, but I can see the interest in their eyebrow
I vow to the dying day of my inner works:
My medium is extra-large, until I’m in the dirt
My fingers hurt from all these over-anxious brushstrokes
Sometimes I’m not looking, I’ll wind up, and cut throats
Just jokes man, I’ll set 'em all aside soon
For now they’re my baby: the centerfold
So from that, circus cannon that you shot me through
To smoking poison in the boy’s room with a Mötley Crüe
Talk me through this
With the coffee, or the newest fixative
And you’ll just say the music’s a risk to his health
But he sticks to his guns, 'til they stick to you
Keeps twisting his tongue, and it’ll spit to you
Sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions
But he don’t sleep, cause sleep is the Reaper’s cousin
And he’s a holy ghost hunter, Steve Perry street talker
Eating some moldy toast under my Beef Whopper
Small city beat-jocker addicted to the hocking spit
Off-beat beatboxer who thinks he’s rocking it
Hip-hop-kin's kid with a mouth full of dynamite
Checking myself for ticks, and Jimmy Caster troglodytes
I hide the fight and show my best impression of…
I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics
While I address my Minnesota ethics
Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don’t respect it
My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric