Letra de 1,000 O'clock
Letra powered by LyricFind
I wear shoes to bed,
paint teeth on my lips,
trench foot, gangrened for the win,
paint teeth on my lips,
trench foot, gangrened for the win,
blitzkrieg bopper,
petitioned out of shit's creek proper,
the only inaccessible blip on the streaming doppler,
screaming "uncle" in a sea of TV doctors,
free to occupy the same space in differing degrees of seedy commerce,
the shot is slow pan, monitor guffawing,
flooded p.d. blotter under horizontal coffee,
more to follow, outside tweakers are in love,
teeny Raquel Welch submarining through the blood, voyagers,
poisoned or maybe just a misfit toy or two,
depending on the beacon that your voyeurs choose,
that sorta hemming and hawing'll haunt your boiler rooms abysmally,
and kidnap rapid eyes in their infancy,
everything his cutting room scrapped,
on a silver screen that throws gummy bears back, attack!
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
Sensible sweater on ice,
devil horns high,
like shovels above a butter lamb with peppercorn eyes,
vendetta-drunk leader squealing,
"it's the real pig fever",
sick people pinky swearing on concealed 6th fingers,
that's idle handwork in the spirit of death dealers,
look at mommy's little Hercules,
custom Troy Hurtubise,
flourish in the blind spot of spittle county gore police,
or really any readily ebbing and flowing war and peace,
1 plain brown key foods bag head,
2 holes later I'll see to this loose flatbread,
cats fucked off, at exactly what cost,
the currency of brotherhood back in his cut palm,
it sucks, it's nauseating dawn crawling with bugs,
they seem attracted to the matters of the morally snubbed,
see my Goodnight Irene massacred flat in the key of tragedy,
whole diner like "i'll have he's having"
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
Today a thousand sea lions got up and left a pier,
they had successfully invaded and secured for 20 years,
some said it was the food supply or shifting weather patterns,
truthfully a whole community of scientists are in maybe 10 showed up at the wharf,
as if guided by the trident of poseidon to cavort,
each a lumbering and boisterous glutton,
like a half-ton annoyance 'til the heart-warming story went public,
you'll need a montage, animals arriving in droves,
a bottom dollar turns a nuisance to the pride of your cove,
which bring us back up to this morning when the colony dove,
i got a couple unsubstantiated thoughts of my own they go,
maybe it'd feel more majestic and less fatty
if a 12 year old wasn't beaning it with salt water taffy
every 5 fucking seconds, sounds like your basic,
liberating moment of collective "fuck fame" shit
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
petitioned out of shit's creek proper,
the only inaccessible blip on the streaming doppler,
screaming "uncle" in a sea of TV doctors,
free to occupy the same space in differing degrees of seedy commerce,
the shot is slow pan, monitor guffawing,
flooded p.d. blotter under horizontal coffee,
more to follow, outside tweakers are in love,
teeny Raquel Welch submarining through the blood, voyagers,
poisoned or maybe just a misfit toy or two,
depending on the beacon that your voyeurs choose,
that sorta hemming and hawing'll haunt your boiler rooms abysmally,
and kidnap rapid eyes in their infancy,
everything his cutting room scrapped,
on a silver screen that throws gummy bears back, attack!
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
Sensible sweater on ice,
devil horns high,
like shovels above a butter lamb with peppercorn eyes,
vendetta-drunk leader squealing,
"it's the real pig fever",
sick people pinky swearing on concealed 6th fingers,
that's idle handwork in the spirit of death dealers,
look at mommy's little Hercules,
custom Troy Hurtubise,
flourish in the blind spot of spittle county gore police,
or really any readily ebbing and flowing war and peace,
1 plain brown key foods bag head,
2 holes later I'll see to this loose flatbread,
cats fucked off, at exactly what cost,
the currency of brotherhood back in his cut palm,
it sucks, it's nauseating dawn crawling with bugs,
they seem attracted to the matters of the morally snubbed,
see my Goodnight Irene massacred flat in the key of tragedy,
whole diner like "i'll have he's having"
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
Today a thousand sea lions got up and left a pier,
they had successfully invaded and secured for 20 years,
some said it was the food supply or shifting weather patterns,
truthfully a whole community of scientists are in maybe 10 showed up at the wharf,
as if guided by the trident of poseidon to cavort,
each a lumbering and boisterous glutton,
like a half-ton annoyance 'til the heart-warming story went public,
you'll need a montage, animals arriving in droves,
a bottom dollar turns a nuisance to the pride of your cove,
which bring us back up to this morning when the colony dove,
i got a couple unsubstantiated thoughts of my own they go,
maybe it'd feel more majestic and less fatty
if a 12 year old wasn't beaning it with salt water taffy
every 5 fucking seconds, sounds like your basic,
liberating moment of collective "fuck fame" shit
All these tribes hoard breads and wines,
these climates transform men to swine,
All these hives hide knives and lead,
these bribes can't transform swine to men
Letra powered by LyricFind
