| When it’s cold, we bite the top of our zips
|
| Pull it up with our teeth 'til it covers our lips
|
| Then exhale; |
| central heating for the weather beaten
|
| No feet are beating, this street in to stand by us like Wil Wheaton
|
| Walking these streets with that distant stare
|
| No one likes us but we don’t care
|
| Maybe our kind don’t fit round here
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| Our minds find conflict round here
|
| See we choose to cruise a route that ain’t paved with gold
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| So our shoes don’t slip they stick and grip this road
|
| Our tools are ink slicks that we engrave and mould
|
| For an end goal you maybe can’t spend or fold
|
| We won’t settle for unsought careers
|
| Or forty years of salty tears
|
| Like a battered up mix-tape with a long faded label
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| When I’m old and decaying I’ll be decaying and able
|
| If the bad times are coming, let 'em come
|
| Let the death drum break the slump
|
| Before the once young braves succumb
|
| The fickle flicker of desire expires
|
| If the bad times are coming let 'em come, let 'em come
|
| I see so many kids that love being writers more than they love writing
|
| Bad times coming
|
| Bash up a castle
|
| I know the zoo keeper
|
| Line em up
|
| Lions on em
|
| I haven’t slept yet
|
| Ever, crust
|
| Kickin up dust
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| Leave em sickin up rust colour
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| Let it come
|
| Let em run
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| Let me laugh at it
|
| Smash like it’s rampage
|
| Live it up
|
| Grasp at it
|
| No pill for the whirlwind coming
|
| Let it come
|
| Spin with the rush no fun till the times up
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| Run against the flood
|
| All stroke no float
|
| For the hope for the coast pump blood
|
| Stump fuckers on the daily
|
| Dump lungs
|
| Volume is up
|
| Watch em hush for the lump sum
|
| But not around here
|
| Around here we steer clear
|
| Of holding our tongues to stack funds
|
| When bad times come it’s like some old news
|
| New shit
|
| Choose yours
|
| New whip or brick?
|
| Thank you
|
| If the bad times are coming, let 'em come
|
| Let the death drum break the slump
|
| Before the once young braves succumb
|
| The fickle flicker of desire expires
|
| If the bad times are coming let 'em come, let 'em come
|
| Quality home life, living a lie now
|
| Take it to the road certain women would lie down
|
| Haunting images I witnessed in my town
|
| Are floating through the night with a knife and a white gown
|
| Gotta dig a bigger hole
|
| But I can never climb out, just burrow and burrow
|
| Or stand on the high ground while pulling the sky down
|
| Wait for the high tide and try not to drown
|
| You’re waiting another day with eyebrows furrowed
|
| Just say what you gotta say… like right now, fucko
|
| Or pipe down bucko, I’m doubting what many say
|
| «Why do you think they call it a burrowing owl anyway?»
|
| Feed the lion despite what the sign says
|
| Act defiant and impolite to my friends
|
| While making side bets in a risky gamble
|
| Save the wild sex for the filthy animals
|
| I switch the channel if the nature turns mechanical
|
| Become detached like your snake mandibles
|
| The slack jawed yokel is practising his cat calls
|
| It’s got the lab rats bounding off the padded walls
|
| If the bad times are coming, let 'em come
|
| Let the death drum break the slump
|
| Before the once young braves succumb
|
| The fickle flicker of desire expires
|
| If the bad times are coming let 'em come, let 'em come |