Версия от 20:56, 20 ноября 2017; Pixelrat (обсуждение | вклад)
(разн.) ← Предыдущая | Текущая версия (разн.) | Следующая → (разн.)
Forever Ago
0:18:13Трек-лист
- Worm Food
- My Will Be Done
- Quitters
- Pandora's Icebox
- Mouthtrap
Тексты песен
They've got black widows in their heads, legs where follicles should be. We'll be better with 'em dead- excluding present company. They've got mosquitoes in their webs suckin' blood-suckers to breathe. We wear tuxedoes to bed. Wake us. Wake us up and see. There are no good deeds and no reasoning. The life that we all lead is just seasoning for... Worm food, oh no. Party, hey hell yeah. We are all screwed anyway. Hold on, hold on to me cus I feel I'm drifting. We've got dying in spades so launch my ashes into space. Worm food, oh no. Party, hey hell yeah. We are all screwed anyway. It's all one great big clusterfuck and there can be no way to rearrange your luck.
Uh-oh. I'm bored again. Maybe it's time to send a message. Woe. Woe to the unbeliever. Woe. Uh-oh. Your knees do not bend. No, no. This is the end for you. I own everything under the sun. Still I am not having fun 'til my will be done. Eternity ain't what it used to be used to be used to be. So everyone do what I say and everything will be okay forever and ever... or whatever. I am not having fun, so my will be done.
Don't wanna be like them- they who don't has the monies. Cus they got nothing to spend on they honeys. Think of all their meager dues. They're quitters and they choose to lose. They're quitters. They're quitters. They're quitters and they choose to lose. But things were simpler then- before the monies. We had time to spend, ain't it funny to think how all we quantify all that we ever do. And all of the little things that we choose to lose. We're quitters. We're quitters. We're quitters. We choose to lose. This game is rigged. I won't play. ...Fuck it.
Leaving my house one day, I discovered the neighbors had put a refrigerator on the curb and taped it shut with an ominous hand-written sign that read "Please, whatever you do, DO NOT OPEN!" Obviously I had to open it. But, already late, I decided to investigate its contents upon my return. Unfortunately, it was gone when I got back, so I wrote a song lamenting the eternal mystery of its contents. Years later I told this story before performing this song live. I noticed two people in the audience losing their minds during the performance. After the show they told me it was they who had written the note, and explained that the fridge belonged to their grandmother and the unspeakable horror that stirred within was just old, rotting food. The world is indeed small, and tragically more full of rot and decay than magic and mystery. As such, some doors are better left unopened.
"Please, whatever you do, DO NOT OPEN!" Cthulu comes through and spits up a tri-colored brew with a hiss. What strange combination is this that's spreading? Neapolitan pandemic: influenza, chocolate, and death. Neapolitan pandemic: influenza, chocolate, and death comes for you from above. Well it's probably true or it's just broken.
Let's build a mansion. Let's build a yacht. Let's build all the shit they want. Fill it up with champagne and fine cigars. Lure 'em in, then lock the doors. Burn down the mansion to the ground. Sink the yacht watch 'em drown. What will they will they have to show when they are dragged below? Let's build a dance club. Let's open a bar with half-dressed ladies and PBR. Bump shitty DnB and pump the bass. They will not hear me when I blow the place down. What will they will they have to show when they are dragged below? Not a thing. Sell poison mushrooms at Joshua Tree. They'll take a one-way trip, I'll take their money. I'd steal your fancy bikes and cut the breaks, but you beat me to it- all I have to do is wait. I don't play favorites. I hate you all. Set a word-of-mouth trap just to watch you fall. All, all, all, all, all I hate you all.