Tuesday, September 06, 2011

as yet untitled:

i guess i've really been slacking on the lyric posting. sorry.

i don't feel like taking the time to do what i wanted to do when posting orion's reboot so i'll post the lyrics for as yet untitled instead.


from the city of big shoulders to city of salt
pushing thick boulders, plan to revolt
sisyphus quits. from stan to gestalt
been biding my time, keep that sand in a vault
rush. grain's free, dust slide avalance
stand tall to happenstance, cross armed, battle stance
or get swept up and drown in the gravel ash
no. just let go of the damages
breathe. make that chest heave
and never let 'em tell you who's next to bleed
i make my own cuts. get myself sewn up
through all the travails exhale so cold crush
let 'em gold rush, i'll just sit still
make my shambles look so fishscale
callin' out for that king james help
sometimes you've just got to sing for self
don't get caught in that what can i do for ya?
end up on some skip to my lucifer
watching fate as it sets those pyres
but i'm gonna set myself on fire

from the midwest to the wester midwest
take this distress and push it out my thin chest
this is the precipice on which we stand
the border between clarity and going mad
this wire on which we tightrope boogaloo
all these looks askew, i already took a few
hangin' from a string for all these years
string strong enough to outlast wrench in gears
another one of those test them years
write it up, send it off, pray that the check clears
head in sand or run from the land?
maybe stand tall like sun in his hand
high noon, time to supply the demand
stop glancing at demons start firing at them
let death in, i'm sure she'll know me
recognize me by the grudges i'm holding

from the great plains to the happy valley
dodging bullets in this shooter's gall'ry
might consider this the throwing of a bone
i'm prone to say it's the disowning of a throne
take your notes, put 'em in your tomes
but let it be known we're never sovereign or rome
crown off. melt to gristle and gold
and bury it deep under thistle and cold
grip your wit like a pistol to hold
step back. be missed from the fold
new tribe, new eyes, new stride
make new mistakes let the old ones retire
strike that match, light the rag, here, catch
bridges or towers they all catch wreck
soot faced, all in a day's trouble
fingers bent back, make life say uncle

1 Comments:

At 12:47 AM, Blogger Emily said...

Adam, your work is brilliant.

 

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