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perennial - reaching out west lyrics
v1:
i’ve got an apt-tude for smacking fools bragging as they laugh and drool
lacking basic synaptic action face down in a shallow pool
i see you stalling mystified as i smothered looks of wicked mongers
you need to crawl back inside your mother and cook a little longer
f-cker, this good luck, proved to be too lush, i stumbled and bruised much
then crumbled and puked guts, i fumbled these loose sl-ts, just trying to bust nuts
what? never had a lover i cared to discover more than a glimps while i’m hiding above her
wide eyed with fire man, third eyes like spiders man
it’s high time you cited your lines, you f-ckin biter, d-mn
i’m just a blind driver riding a bike on a high wire
inciting a sniper to fire on your piety and light desire
but f-ck it i’m tired…
i tried to be inspired…
i strive harder in spite of lack of time fighting not to fly mired
v2:
i seem to die every time a part of me wants defeat
my tongue is harder in my cheek than a nail in a martyr’s feet
i am the hopeless corrosive dosage of holstered components
all these dopeless composers boasting the most loco dome hits
posin with the joker smokin a stogie slow roastin a pony
holy ones told me half my soul was decomposing and moldy
but i wore it more boldly, hoping i could strangle some phonies
or at least bang a few wh-r-s, jeez, can i get an amen, please?
i know this cr-p is sac religious but i laugh at your convictions
the fact you take this serious is sad you sack of minions
who asked of your opinion, you’re mad that i won’t give in?
i’m and addict with prescriptions p-ssing on a merovingian
my head just keeps spinnin…
dead from chasing women…
fed up from dosing broken minds groping for a place to fit in
v3:
this soulless lack of focus is grosser than halitosis
your corrosively packed hope kits are stasis locked and bogus
this pagan copped a bonus when a mason sought to de-stone this
drank some f-go and awakened pasted with makeup throwing fits
i clenched my fist and lent my wrist to a damaged broken chick
bristled with a stroke of vintage hope we’re a copacetic fit
but i’m mostly a corrosive kid, coating up my throat with spit
gloating as i spat upon your grave you token psycho b-tch
doting focal point of croaking vocal tones you hopeless toad
you stole the trope of misanthropes to paint a lonely homeless road
soaking up the lost causes and bronze homage to mediocre
i sat and stroked your joke of an ego looking like a feeble ogre
fighting to be sober…
amidst shooting stars and green clovers…
my acid fractured scull needs closure so f-ck it b-tch bend over
v4:
i cloned a m-s-ch-stic vision of giving women incisions
then st-tching inscriptions of misgivings that turned them to b-tches
conniving and viscous p-ssing crimson and spittin sulfur
arriving suspicious limping and cringing with piteous dull words
this is insidious that culled herds poppin off hideously down turned
back-sswards jackin it to geriatrics i’m the miscreant of flow nerds
you’re the bisquick mix of limp d-ck figures slobbin on my dip stick
you sick picket b-tches pickin misfits to cripple your sh-t quick
nibble on this a little bit before you bow to the rebels
you meddled in a bed of dead head fed up combustible devils
i’m better than these malevolent heckler p-ck-rs infecting pedestals
levelin potential before it’s perfected by plucking petals
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