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The whole world shakes me down |
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The Holy Ghost in rags |
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I've been burning up this town |
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And flipping tiny bags |
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Zeus gave a blade |
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Apollo stuck him up |
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I committed to the fade |
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But then drank another cup |
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It's a dirty song that runs |
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For your fingers in your chest |
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Trying to feel for bombs and guns |
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Or a heart without a vest |
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Bullet proof, good or not |
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Wrecked the weekend coming now |
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I will see you at the spot |
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With my murdered sacred cow |
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Shadows are red inside |
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Shadows they dream in rainbows |
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Shadows cave into fountains of color |
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When we close and avert our eyes |
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Shadows recognize our poverty |
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Rob from always on the run is so bad and copy paste is a sin |
|
Kandinsky is in my room |
|
So is Edgar |
|
Allan Poe |
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The shadows dream in color |
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And that is their final revenge |
|
When we go under |
|
It's nothing but art deco black and white |
|
Andy Warhol submarines |
|
Frying fish of the ages |
|
Shadows are red inside |
|
Shadows dream in rainbows |
|
Shadows cave into fountains of color |
|
We close and avert our eyes |
|
Shadows recognize our poverty |
|
And even pray over us |
|
With minds full of grey |
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And rapid eyes scanning the bottom of the ocean |
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On the middle of the day |
|
Kandinsky is in my room |
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Smoking a brown cigarette |
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And I ignore him and read my orange book |
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Until suddenly he says 'hey' |
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And as I look up |
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He turns into a shadow |
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So that the cigarette falls |
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And the smoke rises slow |
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Filling the space where his body once was |
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Filling the space where his body once was |
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Filling the space where his body once was |
