| Now baby get up out that water
|
| Cuz every castle in the sand’s bout to falter
|
| It’s like the Rock of Gibraltar
|
| Another sheep selfishly sent to the slaughter, holler
|
| (It's gonna be one of those songs,)
|
| He lives like an audition
|
| He skipped his intuition
|
| Living like a nerve, on feelings and superstitions
|
| He swerves through classes and curves through masses
|
| And passes a million dirty looks, he shuffles books
|
| His every moment is staged, He feels he’s plagued with this playwright
|
| Who fails to give his character some insight
|
| Oh, and every time he gets the cue to speak his mind
|
| Enter stage left, an understudy steps on his lines
|
| Not a word, spoke, he goes unheard
|
| Is this a joke? |
| His melodrama’s now the theater of the absurd
|
| It seems his author serendipities the music, comedy, drama
|
| Weathered and haggardly enters the muse in tragedy, cool
|
| Change his script, and change the block, and change roles
|
| Pulls the gun from his bag and gets to cockin'
|
| Pulls the trigger at the kids who kept him as an outsider
|
| Turns that shit on himself, so he can finally meet his writer
|
| Little kids, ok
|
| Little kid walks out in the street
|
| Man behind the wheel looks for change under the seat
|
| Little girl belly hurt, she holds strong
|
| Woman gives up hope, says it’s been too long
|
| Peace, love, unity, respect
|
| Parties over, dancin' with a needle in his neck
|
| Bright eyes, they be dark when dad comes home
|
| Pretends to count sheep so that she’ll be left alone
|
| She only did for money once or twice
|
| Said he learned the true meaning of Minnesota nice
|
| A ??? |
| sea breeze fixed his head
|
| Mother shakes and screams, tries to wake the dead
|
| Little kids live on incomplete
|
| Little kids trip without the prospect of a beat
|
| Steady comin' down from a roll all wrong
|
| Little kids stay little kids cuz growin' up is gone
|
| She was always well dressed, well groomed, well known
|
| But she hid behind a canvas the second she got home
|
| She loved to paint, nothin' in particular
|
| Just blues and grays, that’s how she felt throughout her days
|
| Her landscape was shaped by friends and hangers-on
|
| From boys to the push-up bras they pulled on
|
| But she was always very wary, cuz popularity’s scary
|
| Especially when sincerity rarely comes in clearly
|
| To her it was all fake, mock life, mock friends
|
| She wanted to paint it white, and start again
|
| She wrote letters to her little brother and mother
|
| And packed up her stuff
|
| Then she ran like water colors
|
| Now, a little change in scenery never hurt nothin' but still-life
|
| But still, life’s been everything but real for her right?
|
| Without her crew, she’s like, without a clue, so like
|
| She don’t know who she’s like, know what I mean?
|
| She found a crew she likes, started up new
|
| But the only thing that’s left of her is the paint on her jeans
|
| So she’ll be gone soon
|
| Little kid walks out in the street…
|
| Now baby get up out that water… |