Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sod in the Seed, artist - WHY?.
Date of issue: 04.10.2012
Song language: English
Sod in the Seed |
His hooves in dirt pound |
And eat up ground |
He cannot remain bound |
When the trumpets sound |
Let’s review some recent facts |
I make decent cash, I’m a minor star |
And we can’t last if she don’t drive a hybrid car |
I scribble vapid raps on your flyer backs |
The word is I purchased a refurbished Mac G4 |
Pull up to critical mass in a gas-guzzling Ford |
Just to ask you when next your rock outfit performs |
Before you tell me the fact, I’m down the road yelling back |
Please post it on the Whole Foods bulletin board |
I’d earn a lick of respect in slum art for sure |
But I threw out my lumbar picking up checks |
I’m so numb, Lord, yes, despite how I’m blessed |
I’m destined to end up a slum lord depressed |
Come by, poorly dressed, your address on the first |
Hum something under my breath that half resembles some words |
And like a bird in a suit cut for a brutish bear |
Back out of there bowing like a Jew in prayer |
I’ll never shirk this first world curse |
A steady hurt and a sturdy purse |
A small dark bard, I’ll give an inch to start |
Then leave you home dreaming of the whole nine yards |
Leave you home dreaming, believing that you’d seen me |
Loose skin breathing like a cathedral at evening |
Screaming like a demon in the Garden of Eden |
Missing what parts that a stork in its beak brings |
But even what an evil man thinks is really pink |
And on his insides, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pull his card out |
So what if a man blinks in Morse code while he sings if he sings his heart out? |
Everybody’s gotta get paid |
I’d say «far out, no way» |
Frankly, I’d be amazed |
But a patriot would save the day |
Make the hitch, help C.I.A |
What’s bad, what’s good |
A complicated man is misunderstood, even to himself |
Acutely unaware what’s in a shallow breath of air |
And long exhale of something else |
Two sips, instant drip, Sanka mud |
New corpus publicist, thanks ya bud |
As hundred bucks worth of wordy blogger thugs |
Come forth forthwith to four seasons aflood |
To morbidly orbit your toilet like hornets abuzz |
Forming above like buzzards in love |
When you first wake up, spitting sick from the gut |
And shitting black blood at six |
Then you wonder why I’m high up, sitting, yup |
The blundering braggart |
From a covered wagon spitting under the vagrants in gutters |
What, does it make me evil? |
Am I a feeble deranged fuck? |
Cause Jesus would and I would not drive the needle exchange truck? |
Well if I’m out of luck, I’m still pitching notes through this throat |
Pissing fears and hopes through the ears of folks listening |
No matter what, batter up enough of this nonsense |
You can gather up the contents of the catcher’s cup and suck |
You kneel and squint your eyes and cup your hands against the window |
Just to see who rides, to get a glimpse inside the limo |
Have some self-respect and exercise some tact |
While I supply the info that you lack |
One must pay the frat fee to enjoy the fat-free snacks |
Strippers, roofies, and six-packs, and groupies with big breasts |
Sending out mass texts asking who’s next |
To get his lance waxed in the wickedest sex acts |
Step back from the stretch, mack, and mind the gap |
With all due respect sir, there’s a limited cap |
You’ll need a ticket to kick it in the back |
Of this rented, tinted-out black Cadillac |
But I can tell by your polo slacks, Sebagos, and blank stare |
You’re good for the total package and game to be back there |
But who am I to judge a man’s heart by his yacht wear? |
And it scares me to death, yes, that I’m starting to not care |
Good and evil’s often neither strength or flaw |
But sod in the seed of what you are |
A filthy silt stashed in a white silk sash |
Or a doula dove smashed in an airplane crash |
I’ll never shirk this first world curse |
A steady hurt and a sturdy purse |
A steady hurt and a sturdy purse |