Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Trite, artist - Sage Francis. Album song Sick of Waiting Tables, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 31.12.2000
Record label: Strange Famous
Song language: English
Trite |
I’m having identity crises |
«no we’re not.» |
«yes we are.» |
I’m having identity crises |
«no we’re not.» |
«yes we are.» |
I don’t have a feeling that hasn’t been felt, feeling on my felt tip |
Showing my hand… revealing what i’ve dealt with |
And how i’m dealing. |
cut the deck. |
evenly distribute the pieces |
Of shit talking during our disputes on weekends |
We can sing along to each other’s song, right? |
Even if the interpretation is wrong, right? |
Just make sure you don’t bring the wrong mike |
'cause i don’t care about meeting a boyfriend we can all like (nah!) |
This song is called trite, hope ya like it |
Could’ve substituted your name with the title but i decided that i’d keep it |
private |
Violent dream sequences just seem endless |
I can see myself making a heated entrance |
To your workplace with a smirk on my face |
And a tongue in my cheek. |
and a gun in my reach |
Sneaking naked photos of myself under the seats of your co-workers |
Putting a knife to your throat and screaming out «i won’t hurt her!» |
They’re like, «let her go!» |
And i’m like, «let her grow!» |
Prisoners wouldn’t listen to this. |
their rational side was out on a furlough |
I like turbo-nuclear family affairs |
I want a wife, a house, and two and a half mistresses to call when i’m not there |
Then hang up the phone, and have my wife call up the phone company |
And ask the phone company guy «why???» |
And he’s like, «ma'am…well, maybe you just don’t know how to talk.» |
And she’s like, «damn…well…wanna fuck me?» |
«yeah of course.» |
See? |
case closed. |
and he knows how to trace calls |
So i can’t make cranks saying, «i hate ya’ll!» |
I throw baseballs at my mirror, break walls a tear a- |
Nother page out of my diary, throwing it from the eighth floor 'til i hear a |
Pin drop. |
unsuspecting pallbearers are in shock |
They know i’m about to kill myself with a sling shot |
They bring rocks for ammunition |
Steal my lifetime magazines and then cancel my subscription |
Their hands are just itching to scratch my clean records |
My rap sheets are infected, now i can’t be president??? |
I just have to be elected! |
i ask for just a second chance |
The answer back was «kid, you never did in the first place.» |
Speaking of that, give me my blue ribbons back and anything that is mine |
Waiting for a nice guy who can’t make it to the finish line |
When i die you won’t recognize the picture buried inside the obituary |
But it’ll say, «bye, i miss you very much.» |
I’m always one for last words at departing time |
In a million years is when this dead star will shine |
Say my fuckin' name. |
nope. |
say my fuckin' name. |
nope |
You don’t…know what to call me so you don’t |
You don’t you don’t call me |
You don’t you don’t call me |