Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Shoot the Messenger, artist - SOLE.
Date of issue: 21.03.2004
Song language: English
Shoot the Messenger |
experts: go home, nothing to see, not here, not forever. |
the 90's thinking man, 2002 dead man in us all. |
in search for volunteers for the death of passion, and it put nipples in the sky, the womb is all around us. |
the alien racetrack is us. |
afraid to make eye contact is us. |
walking blindly, counting credits we’ll never see, |
green balloons carry your cars away to plant in egypt |
to be a plant in the sidewalk of a wheelchair |
race car driver. |
watery world, watery days; |
the water in my brain makes it hard to spot dry land, but i will fly again, |
fall again, but never on my pen. |
these eyes have seen one too many movies |
and i fear my parents counterprogramming outlived their own. |
there was no training for the hunt, |
but i put up a tent to daydream in (to daydream in). |
the freedom fighter calls life a nuclear nightmare. |
and if you don’t like the tone of my sinking ship, |
pray for me while i cry for you. |
whoever i can’t kill, my daughter will. |
and at night, in complete silence, i can convince myself i’m psychic |
as i walk through berkeley and wish i had a cause. |
i know it’s bullshit, but it’s all i can believe in. |
the more time i spend staring at people who never dare to stare, |
i also know it isn’t hopeless if i’m thinking this. |
and avoiding cliche is like lying in my living room, |
staring at the ceiling, complaining about how ugly that it’s getting. |
only two of my childhood friends escaped the experiment, |
some were killed, some became killers. |
some mourn a lack of ambition through parents |
who passsed on the nest 'til there were no worms left. |
the successful went on to go to college then do nothing; |
if you’re their fool, you’re everyone’s fool and no one’s friend. |
it’s a native american thing, you’d never understand why |
i’ve learned to eat pain like a sunday snack, |
march to no tune, and got a collar and doggy biscuit. |
tim holland on shattuck on a roman holiday… |
self-taught master of sleepless hallucination. |
loveless thinking pill, make me eat my own vomit; |
learn it to dance for my sister’s dog sake, |
my mother’s mother, and my father’s veins sake. |
they all wanna spill my guts into the street and wrestle me in it |
like i can’t digest what i can’t swallow |
for all the loveless pedestrians holding bloodless hands. |
and when alone with death for the first time, but realize it was there all |
along. |
the amusement park lines aren’t as good as the in-my-head-lines: |
this is my newest installment in my latest last will and testament series. |
i see people who try too hard to be themselves |
and wanna throw them lines like no one is themselves, |
follow your guts to traffic. |
'cause your remote control dreams are worth more to you than to them. |
you have to believe me, i wrote this with a pink pen |
and my face never goes red when they ask what it means. |
misunderstand me in your perfect pose, while plastic seats scream, «your excellence,» |
your pretty putty padded ass. |
well-trained men learned to worship the lovenessness all around; |
shallowness is quite becoming. |
all the parts of life that are not mind-numbing experiences, |
throw your hats off to those of us who can run off cheap batteries and wine. |
we’d love to run you off the road and write a book about it. |
if you stood between the day the little pig took the big pigs out to dinner |
to eat them with barren hands |
that done wrote ten million words and never got my point across. |
like people afraid to be different wanna make a difference. |
most nights i sleep alone and freezing and have no dreams. |
tonight is different: awake and freezing, i have no skin |
left for my parachute. |
this advice isn’t for you, it’s for me; |
in my stomach forever. |
tomorrow they’ll forget me 'cause i never learned to kill for oil but then |
again, |
i never learned to sit still and probably never will. |
feel the need to hide these beautiful places until my rich man’s death bed. |
we can’t sleep, i can’t write at all in my room 'cause i had a girl there once, |
and the moral of the story is… |
and the moral of the story is…(there is no story). |