| I spun and I stood, and I look back at the good
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| And I remembered seeing ghosts, and I remembered being tiny
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| I remembered always hiding with only flashlights lighting
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| Had to pee when you found the best spot. |
| Bad timing
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| Climbing a dogwood. |
| Barking, in bloom
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| Sting singing on the ceiling of a blue bedroom
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| Like a Harlem-line summertime hootenanny barbecue:
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| Screaming «I'm fine!», but I think they all knew
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| Cause you can’t hide your childhood flying dreams
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| Through your fishbowl-wall transparencies
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| And the clock tick-tocked. |
| It was time to leave
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| I walked away from everyone and everything
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| And I thought when I left, that I couldn’t come back
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| With that old household never home again
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| And then, when I ran toward the one-man-band
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| I began abandoning all my friends
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| All dressed up, like a spider in a cup
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| Entirely divided from his hub
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| Addressing injuries commissioned by the Suffolk county brier
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| When building coverage out of rubber tires
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| Or guns out of thumbs…
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| Negotiated inter-stellar peace talks
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| Mothership transmitting intel on the meatloaf
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| Ummm… It’s getting cold, sugar water getting warm
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| Cruising to a future summer, suiting up for civil war
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| How? |
| All dressed up like a spider in a cup
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| Hiding tiny butterflies inside his gut
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| Having settled down, several thousand miles from his blood
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| To climb and tirelessly high-dive into a sponge
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| Space invaders through a paper Rita Hayworth
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| Trying to tunnel 'till he ankle deep in pay-dirt
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| Or halo deep in water…
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| Glub glub… wondering if running
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| Is considered by the people to be cowardly or cunning
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| Boomer-oomerang, Boomer-oomer-oomerang
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| Boomer-oomerang, Boomer-oomer-oomerang
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| I went east with a hole to fill in my chest
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| I went west with it filled: off to build a nest
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| I’m impressed. |
| I’m depressed. |
| I’m the best. |
| I’m a mess
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| With a pretty little baby girl upon my breast
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| And next: progress, twist, turn, digress
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| Busy, busy, busy, busy, busy, busy, never rest
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| I missed the rest as you might suspect
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| And I tried to fly, but my wings are wet
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| A kid in the woods, ducked down in the shrubs
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| Out of hiding just in time to greet the sun
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| So here I stand with my hand out cast aflame
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| I’m sorry that sometimes I’m so lame
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| I’m sorry that sometimes I’m a deadbeat friend
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| The worry makes me scurry into my own head
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| With my eyes on the rise, feet where it sets
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| Sentimental obstacles; |
| of course it’s me not them
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| All dressed up, like a spider in a cup
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| I’m four bald tires in the mud
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| When it’s diner food or bust
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| Spiralling a sign of whats to come
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| While pretending I am fine with what I’ve done
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| I’m not, but homies that appreciate the crisis
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| And treat 'em like they seen 'em with a second set of eyelids
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| Ok, that wasn’t fair, admittedly I wasn’t there
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| Long before I volunteered as unabashed, unaware
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| How? |
| All dressed up, like a spider in a cup
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| Who never knew a silence so abrupt
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| When the mileage in the middle, turn a siren to a hush
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| First you hate it, then you love it, then you try it as a crutch
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| Long Island was the hatchery, NYC the wetstone
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| Sharpening the carving knives, foraging for breadcrumbs
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| I headed west, planned to boomerang back
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| Sidetracked by a trans-continental cage match
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| Boomer-oomer-oomerang
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| Boomer-oomer-oomerang
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| Boomer-oomer-oomerang
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| Boomer-oomer-oomerang |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Boomerang, artist - The Uncluded. Album song Hokey Fright, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп