well... i suppose it's pretty unique?
to be completely honest, this still somehow feels like an improvement. an absurd, ridiculous improvement, but one nonetheless.
if you agree, that's sick. if you don't agree, that's also sick. i'm making these songs whether you like them or not.
that is all.
peace.
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LYRICS:
all lyrics have, unsurprisingly, been changed from the original -
[chicken noises]
...nah, I'm just fuckin' with ya.
Whattup, motherfuckers!
Ya ever seen anyone lose their mind on-mic?
Well come on in. Grab a seat. Grab a cuppa,
and watch the chook bat his third strike.
Come one, come all to the extravaganza;
the cacophonous callousness; the coop of stanza.
There's so much here to see, so have a gander
and meet your poultric pullet commander.
The coward in question? By now, you know him so well.
But then, who am I to go and cluck and tell?
Instead, I'll instil this tetherous will
to trot and toil inside my personal hell.
Sisyphus: his rock. The timepiece: its tock,
and Winston trudges through Minitrue's minutiae.
And like an archaic cuckoo clock, I'll chirp, and chant, and cock
in complete disregard for my future.
So enjoy the show, especially those in the splash zone.
Place your bets. Let's see how fierce the auction gets.
Can you tell me what on earth I'm supposed to do
when you tell me one and one cannot equal two?
If Mr Sun can't shine, nor can Mr Moon.
And yet each day that passes has this tension boil and stew.
So forgive the effrontery, but I must beg you to humble me
and throw this Pavlov dog another bone.
It's a fair hike, you see, that peak we call prosperity
and this bard is in dire need of a loan.
Naught I'm but a man. And sad although I am,
I'm really trying my hardest to move forward.
So when we come back here again, and the start becomes an end,
consider this lamentation a foreword.
Singing songs you like to hear, 'til the dissonance reappears.
There's probably subtext, are you picking it up?
It's a metaphor for... ha, who gives a fuck. I'm in a cage.
Subvert the expected to avert stagnation.
But if you rely on that diversion, subversion is expectation.
And the whole damn point of this experimentation
was to avoid that homogenization.
So please, tell me what the hell I'm supposed to be
when the total sum of me really equals three.
Amalgamate, hate, berate 'til we all roam free?
When in reality we know we'll be condemned to rinse and repeat.
There's a me stuck underground,
a me left on the shelf,
a me that gets paraded: the me that's shown to everyone else.
And sure, I lament the lack of a hen to share with in sick or in health.
But how am I supposed to love another when I barely know myself?
I'm the enlightened! I am the free!
We're the despited. We are the freak.
A soliloquy this be, before the scene you came to see;
the peak before the lethargy.
Escalate, escalate. Don't fall. Don't hesitate.
Don't let the other half take control.
And when push comes to shove in this dual, dead, dueling love,
we'll see if you can truly be whole.
And who will pay the toll?
The Heart, the Mind or the Soul?
Oh, baby, you. You know what I need.
I think it's obvious: a captive audience
who will refuse to properly see
the man behind the lines;
the triplicated rhymes.
No, baby, you. You're not what I need.
I don't need a helping hand that's hidden in the sand.
No, baby, you can't help me be free.
It's painful to admit, but even I can see through my bullshit.
One time they tried to sing to me
about blues and greens; the in-betweens.
But mechanical hands decided where the Heart would be: just apathy.
I had been trying for years and for years that streamed
to thrive, and relish entropy.
But when he finally shot at me, lines once solid were blurred.
And right as he (I) missed, my eyes in a mist,
I finally realized I shot at myself;
the reflection of the else;
the disconnection; the side of the coin at once withheld.
You know we've
been here before, and will be once more
when we trip on the line that we toe;
when we slip off the vine that's regrown.
And when we fall into the darkness below, that's when we'll know
That we are
stuck in between, in indemnity, the indomitable weather
of opposites with no regard for time; no reason behind their rhyme.
Slow, patternly, is the melody that he's stringing together.
But they have time enough to spend some time alone.
All alone.
All alone.
All alone.
14 окт 2024
