Gotta Lotta Walls Lyrics
| Song | Gotta Lotta Walls |
| Artist | Atmosphere |
| Album | Seven's Travels |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Ant, Slug | |
| Dialed up his homie | |
| Murs on the telephone | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong | |
| Brain freezing up, he don't know what to do | |
| But the people that know him know that it ain't nothing new | |
| Catch five rings, then an answering machine | |
| Hang up on the beep, stare up towards the ceiling | |
| Stood up to remember that he slept fully-dressed | |
| So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat's nest | |
| Stepped up to that big outside | |
| Somebody once said "Today's a good day to die." | |
| But he never really was a big fan of their work | |
| So he starts up the walk by kicking sand in the dirt | |
| A friend to the strangers, a stranger to friends | |
| He'll take a coffee and a pack of cigarettes when you have a minute | |
| Handle it. | |
| Paid up. The change, you can keep it | |
| He's a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage | |
| If you knew him better he'd ask for some time'cause he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there's only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong[Hook 2X] | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| No shop value to titillate | |
| Far from shallow, so get it straight | |
| Blacktop, sidewalk,and the street'cause life is priceless and talk is cheap | |
| And as he sits (as he sits) in his four-cornered room | |
| Following a tune, born to consume | |
| Carefully learning and analyzing the lyrics you use | |
| Finally realizing that humility is a bruise | |
| Scared love don't make none | |
| If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones | |
| Watching this man, falling off of his plan- | |
| Underachievin' just so he can understand. (Crazy reverse speech.)[Hook] | |
| So, who did your tattoos? | |
| That's nice | |
| And who built your tabboos? | |
| That's life | |
| If he had a glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists | |
| But someone already beat him to it | |
| He would fingerpaint you a picture with his blood | |
| A self-portrait, dramatic and morbid | |
| But the odds of you finding any appreciation are too slim- | |
| Keeps his outlook grim | |
| Tap his foot to the rhythm of original sin | |
| Throw his balls to the wind trying to know down these pins | |
| He'll keep swinging from the hair above his chin | |
| Till he finds his soul in the fifty cent bin | |
| The price of the payphone escalates | |
| Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates | |
| He could write another hate-poem for you to break | |
| Or maybe stay calm and wait for that big earthquake | |
| Still surrounded by the fire and the water | |
| Still trying to honor this empire's daughter | |
| Still answering questions you're afraid to ask | |
| Still believing that | |
| God's gonna save his ass[Hook] | |
| If you knew him better he'd ask for some time'cause he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there's only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong |
| zuo ci : Ant, Slug | |
| Dialed up his homie | |
| Murs on the telephone | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong | |
| Brain freezing up, he don' t know what to do | |
| But the people that know him know that it ain' t nothing new | |
| Catch five rings, then an answering machine | |
| Hang up on the beep, stare up towards the ceiling | |
| Stood up to remember that he slept fullydressed | |
| So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat' s nest | |
| Stepped up to that big outside | |
| Somebody once said " Today' s a good day to die." | |
| But he never really was a big fan of their work | |
| So he starts up the walk by kicking sand in the dirt | |
| A friend to the strangers, a stranger to friends | |
| He' ll take a coffee and a pack of cigarettes when you have a minute | |
| Handle it. | |
| Paid up. The change, you can keep it | |
| He' s a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage | |
| If you knew him better he' d ask for some time' cause he' s looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there' s only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong Hook 2X | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| No shop value to titillate | |
| Far from shallow, so get it straight | |
| Blacktop, sidewalk, and the street' cause life is priceless and talk is cheap | |
| And as he sits as he sits in his fourcornered room | |
| Following a tune, born to consume | |
| Carefully learning and analyzing the lyrics you use | |
| Finally realizing that humility is a bruise | |
| Scared love don' t make none | |
| If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones | |
| Watching this man, falling off of his plan | |
| Underachievin' just so he can understand. Crazy reverse speech. Hook | |
| So, who did your tattoos? | |
| That' s nice | |
| And who built your tabboos? | |
| That' s life | |
| If he had a glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists | |
| But someone already beat him to it | |
| He would fingerpaint you a picture with his blood | |
| A selfportrait, dramatic and morbid | |
| But the odds of you finding any appreciation are too slim | |
| Keeps his outlook grim | |
| Tap his foot to the rhythm of original sin | |
| Throw his balls to the wind trying to know down these pins | |
| He' ll keep swinging from the hair above his chin | |
| Till he finds his soul in the fifty cent bin | |
| The price of the payphone escalates | |
| Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates | |
| He could write another hatepoem for you to break | |
| Or maybe stay calm and wait for that big earthquake | |
| Still surrounded by the fire and the water | |
| Still trying to honor this empire' s daughter | |
| Still answering questions you' re afraid to ask | |
| Still believing that | |
| God' s gonna save his ass Hook | |
| If you knew him better he' d ask for some time' cause he' s looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there' s only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong |
| zuò cí : Ant, Slug | |
| Dialed up his homie | |
| Murs on the telephone | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong | |
| Brain freezing up, he don' t know what to do | |
| But the people that know him know that it ain' t nothing new | |
| Catch five rings, then an answering machine | |
| Hang up on the beep, stare up towards the ceiling | |
| Stood up to remember that he slept fullydressed | |
| So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat' s nest | |
| Stepped up to that big outside | |
| Somebody once said " Today' s a good day to die." | |
| But he never really was a big fan of their work | |
| So he starts up the walk by kicking sand in the dirt | |
| A friend to the strangers, a stranger to friends | |
| He' ll take a coffee and a pack of cigarettes when you have a minute | |
| Handle it. | |
| Paid up. The change, you can keep it | |
| He' s a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage | |
| If you knew him better he' d ask for some time' cause he' s looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there' s only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong Hook 2X | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| And this house has gotta lotta walls | |
| But only very few mean anything to you | |
| No shop value to titillate | |
| Far from shallow, so get it straight | |
| Blacktop, sidewalk, and the street' cause life is priceless and talk is cheap | |
| And as he sits as he sits in his fourcornered room | |
| Following a tune, born to consume | |
| Carefully learning and analyzing the lyrics you use | |
| Finally realizing that humility is a bruise | |
| Scared love don' t make none | |
| If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones | |
| Watching this man, falling off of his plan | |
| Underachievin' just so he can understand. Crazy reverse speech. Hook | |
| So, who did your tattoos? | |
| That' s nice | |
| And who built your tabboos? | |
| That' s life | |
| If he had a glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists | |
| But someone already beat him to it | |
| He would fingerpaint you a picture with his blood | |
| A selfportrait, dramatic and morbid | |
| But the odds of you finding any appreciation are too slim | |
| Keeps his outlook grim | |
| Tap his foot to the rhythm of original sin | |
| Throw his balls to the wind trying to know down these pins | |
| He' ll keep swinging from the hair above his chin | |
| Till he finds his soul in the fifty cent bin | |
| The price of the payphone escalates | |
| Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates | |
| He could write another hatepoem for you to break | |
| Or maybe stay calm and wait for that big earthquake | |
| Still surrounded by the fire and the water | |
| Still trying to honor this empire' s daughter | |
| Still answering questions you' re afraid to ask | |
| Still believing that | |
| God' s gonna save his ass Hook | |
| If you knew him better he' d ask for some time' cause he' s looking for a reservoire to empty his mind | |
| And there' s only so much he can put in a song | |
| Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong |
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