作词 : Aesop Rock
Shit... Vanessa, what time is it? aw, **** ... 
I'm late again. 
Zoom in to the fuming of an aggravated breed 
Via the study of post-adolescent agitated seeds. 
Half the patients wasted self prior to commencement, 
So I focus on the urban 
Oxygen samples, the half that made it breathe. 
This old Pompeii impression sways infection in 12 steps or less 
And cretins swiftly tippy-toe on hard to swallow barter concepts. 
The give-it/get-it never let itself past wrought iron stubbornness. 
Martyrs talk funny causes into a harvesting 
Spartacus and so on... 
I throw long 
Hail Mary bombs 
Toward cookie-cutter 
Mother Nature's bedazzled synthetic fabrics. 
Life treats the peasants like 
They tried to **** his woman while he slept inside, 
While they're merely chasing perfectionist emblems. 
When the clock strikes 
Nine I'll be waking with the best of the routine caffeine team players 
For the cycle of it. 
Under a dusted angel harp-string, 
Big Brother is watching 
My odometer like buzzard to fallen elk, hawkin' stealth. 
We got babies, rubber stamps, and briefcase parts. 
We on some door-to-door now, 
Order ten dollars or more we'll shove it down your throat for free. 
I sacrifice my inborn tendencies for copper pennies 
From one commander 'gimme that' so he can retain baby fat. 
Mega biter snake bedlam, 
Holocaust freak heckle shiesty brain headroom shake planet. 
Make a move, pause, make a move, break cannon. 
Bend barrel 180 u-turn, squeeze, end it. 
It's on like it's never been, 
It's bleeding well, 
It's bigger than a breadbox, 
It corrodes my leaky finance. 
I take my seat atop the 
Brooklyn Bridge 
With a Coke and a bag of chips 
To watch a thousand lemmings plummet 
Just because the first one slipped. 
Sometimes 
I laugh at victory, kissing these little question marks. 
I tend to underestimate my average. 
Just another bastard savage. 
Someday you'll all eat out of my cold hand 
Cuz every dog has its day 
At which point, 
I'll pull it away. 
We the American working population 
Hate the fact that eight hours a day 
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us 
And we may not hate our jobs, 
But we hate jobs in general 
That don't have to do with fighting our own causes. 
We the American working population 
Hate the nine-to-five day-in/day-out 
When we'd rather be supporting ourselves 
By being paid to perfect the pasttimes 
That we have harbored based solely on the fact 
That it makes us smile if it sounds dope... 
It's the Year of the 
Silkworm. 
Everything 
I built burned yesterday. 
Let's display the purpose that these stilts serve. 
Elevate the spreading of the silk germ. 
Trying to weave a web but all 
I believe in is dead. 
Nah brother, it's the 
Year of the 
Jackal. Saddle up on high horse. 
My torch forced 
Polaris embarrassed. 
Shackle up the hassle by the doom and legend marriage. 
I bought some new sneakers, 
I just hope my legacy matches. 
It's the Year of the 
Landshark. 
Dry as sand--parched--damn, get these men some water. 
They're out there being slaughtered 
In meaningless wars so you don't have to bother 
And can sit and soak the idiot box, trying to **** their daughters. 
Man, it's the 
Year of the 
Orphan. Seated adjacent to the fireflies circling the torches on your porches. 
Trying to guard the fortress of a king they've never seen or met 
But all are trained to murder at the first sign of a threat. 
Maybe it's the 
Year of the 
Water Bug. 
Cockroach. 
Utter thug specimen. 
Fury spawned from dreaming of your next of kin. 
I'm still dealing with this mess 
I'm in. I've been the object of your ridicule. 
You've been a bitch lieutenant. 
God, it's the 
Year of the 
Underpaid 
Employee Spitting forty plus a week 
And trying to rape earth in my off time. 
You bored dizzy, 
I can't keep myself busy enough 
So you can run, run, run, 
And I'ma let you think you won. 
EVERYBODY! 
We the American working population 
Hate the fact that eight hours a day 
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us 
And we may not hate our jobs, 
But we hate jobs in general 
That don't have to do with fighting our own causes. 
We the American working population 
Hate the nine to five day-in/day-out 
But we'd rather be supporting ourselves 
By being paid to perfect the pasttimes 
That we have harbored based solely on the fact 
That it makes us smile if it sounds dope. 
OUTRO Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen. 
Pour myself a cup of ambition. 
And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess, 
And if I never make it home today, 
God bless. 
Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen. 
Pour myself a cup of ambition. 
And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess, 
And if I never make it home today, 
God bless.