| Inanimate sensation
|
| Vantage perspective from objective it came from
|
| Inanimate situation
|
| No relation, close liaison
|
| No conversation, no social contagion
|
| Bother me, wanna be comrade intrusive
|
| I remain
|
| Inanimate aloof skip
|
| Counterfeit
|
| Like no can do, bitch
|
| My vinyl vibrate higher than you, bitch
|
| I represent, ain’t meant to pursue which
|
| One of you, oh you all wanna ride, well, I ain’t got room stress
|
| While we continue to make shit tight the loosest
|
| Aaaah
|
| Blown out
|
| Base
|
| You got a minute
|
| You’re in my way
|
| What’s wrong
|
| Wrong with who
|
| So what’s going on?
|
| Okay
|
| Where you at right now?
|
| I’m not with you
|
| Inanimate persuasion
|
| Strictly still life with all of my occasion
|
| Inanimate surge of inspiration
|
| Glow like thermonuclear invasion
|
| Compared to swapping thoughts; |
| regurgitation
|
| I revel in lack of slightest acquaintance
|
| No rancid level after taste inanimate negate opinion
|
| As it unravel like enigmatic onion
|
| Layers of interdimensional dominion
|
| Blown out
|
| Base
|
| Yeah, bitch
|
| Bitch, bitch
|
| My smoke, my butane
|
| My boots, my headphones, my medicated noose
|
| My deadroom, my schwartzwald hat, my Mac
|
| My macaque skull, my lysergic stash
|
| Empty streets at night, my bike
|
| Apartment sink filled with dry ice
|
| Condemned tenement, brandished rail spike
|
| Disturb in flat noir and stale white
|
| Grey cloud curled around my bearded compound like boa
|
| One of two thunderbolt we ain’t broke on tour
|
| Concrète antique trapdoor twenty-four
|
| Spots to get that get right
|
| When I gotta get right some more
|
| Type of get right I can’t afford
|
| I covet these things more than any living thing
|
| I’ve never been
|
| Blown out
|
| Base
|
| I’m so Northern California, I call scratch «bammer»
|
| Pure overhander
|
| Live show on a banner
|
| Axl Rose in a blender
|
| Slash on Satan’s fender
|
| Rick James on the cover
|
| Running through your lover
|
| Like mean Mr. Mustard
|
| Stadium style
|
| For those who came to jock
|
| Watch that man salute you
|
| Endless nameless Lady Godivas we snoop to
|
| Like eighty-three mermaids in Brooklyn Zoo
|
| Inanimate ghetto box we used to pimp through
|
| Blown out
|
| Base
|
| Inanimate fixation
|
| Obsessed with my demo tape collection
|
| Inanimate riffs I’m glazin'
|
| Brag you’re making music, naw, you’re makin' bacon
|
| Skinhead, skinhead inna dublin
|
| I like my iPod more than fuckin'
|
| Blown out
|
| Base |