Song | I Miss the Zoo |
Artist | Joseph Arthur |
Album | The Ballad of Boogie Christ |
I miss the drunk, I miss the fiend | |
I miss the simplicity of addiction and the scene | |
I miss wandering aimlessly in half dead sewers | |
With rats for eyes chewing on forgiveness and the will to apologize | |
I miss the return of no return as I burn in avalanches of white snow and yellow cocaine | |
I miss talking to brick walls while following the grain | |
And human dolls as I plagiarize myself like a dummy | |
Stuffed with counterfeit money for Cairo and black honey | |
I miss illusions begging to be chased | |
Even as they disappear into me erased | |
Until there is no one or nothing but the chase | |
And a powdery ghost with no face or faith | |
And the woman of my dreams disappearing without grace | |
Rob from always on the run is so bad and copy paste is a sin | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I miss evolving into a cloud of blue marijuana | |
Blown from the lips of hookers and pimps | |
As they shake each other down in alleys for the dammed but mighty | |
With no one but the weak around and the beautiful unsightly | |
I miss numb Neanderthals marching in rows of living dead | |
From my wisdom teeth to Spain and back again in my head | |
I miss salvation in syringes and angels of mercy | |
In blooms of smoke numbing rain which drinks when thirsty | |
I miss glasses full of spirits who without tongues speak to me in Napoleon's wild nights | |
I miss staying up for days and becoming a psychic pretzel flying kites | |
Chewed on by a Zulu heading with toads to Mars | |
A mysterious prison and one without bars | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I miss waking in the arms of strangers like puppies | |
Just born in the pound to a dead mother with eyes sealed shut | |
Looking for a tit to suck and other dangers | |
When the night before laughter was the only pursuit | |
Even as knives carved up our backs and demons sat like Buddhas eating fruit | |
Meditating on hate forever in our minds | |
I miss exposing even my bones and the need that rewinds | |
Even my burning home, even my gutted inner child | |
Even my dead grandfather beneath the ground that’s wild | |
Even my criminal family, even my weedwacker thoughts | |
Whipping a thin plastic string to cut the ears of others as I sing | |
I miss van Gogh’s revenge, I miss his nightly binge | |
I miss spiders surrounding my bed and lifting me as if an effigy | |
Or a Dead King or a prophet of doom | |
A Jesus for the apocalypse wearing dirt like perfume | |
Or a mother for Satan or a ghost for all the children of abuse | |
And taking me into the fire watching me burn like a goose | |
As they sing in spider voices | |
There goes creation, there goes the moon | |
There goes the butterfly wanting a cocoon | |
I miss being a bloom and a goon | |
Waking up too soon, in the afternoon | |
A doctor of regret | |
Hanging onto guitar strings in tune | |
And hanging by a belt wrapped around some pipe to nowhere and felt | |
My lips too wrapped around what appears to be stained glass | |
As religious figures dress like rocks with class | |
Burn into gas to the center of my brain | |
The euphoria of dying and being born all at once | |
While wearing the hat that reads 'dunce' | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo |
I miss the drunk, I miss the fiend | |
I miss the simplicity of addiction and the scene | |
I miss wandering aimlessly in half dead sewers | |
With rats for eyes chewing on forgiveness and the will to apologize | |
I miss the return of no return as I burn in avalanches of white snow and yellow cocaine | |
I miss talking to brick walls while following the grain | |
And human dolls as I plagiarize myself like a dummy | |
Stuffed with counterfeit money for Cairo and black honey | |
I miss illusions begging to be chased | |
Even as they disappear into me erased | |
Until there is no one or nothing but the chase | |
And a powdery ghost with no face or faith | |
And the woman of my dreams disappearing without grace | |
Rob from always on the run is so bad and copy paste is a sin | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I miss evolving into a cloud of blue marijuana | |
Blown from the lips of hookers and pimps | |
As they shake each other down in alleys for the dammed but mighty | |
With no one but the weak around and the beautiful unsightly | |
I miss numb Neanderthals marching in rows of living dead | |
From my wisdom teeth to Spain and back again in my head | |
I miss salvation in syringes and angels of mercy | |
In blooms of smoke numbing rain which drinks when thirsty | |
I miss glasses full of spirits who without tongues speak to me in Napoleon' s wild nights | |
I miss staying up for days and becoming a psychic pretzel flying kites | |
Chewed on by a Zulu heading with toads to Mars | |
A mysterious prison and one without bars | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I miss waking in the arms of strangers like puppies | |
Just born in the pound to a dead mother with eyes sealed shut | |
Looking for a tit to suck and other dangers | |
When the night before laughter was the only pursuit | |
Even as knives carved up our backs and demons sat like Buddhas eating fruit | |
Meditating on hate forever in our minds | |
I miss exposing even my bones and the need that rewinds | |
Even my burning home, even my gutted inner child | |
Even my dead grandfather beneath the ground that' s wild | |
Even my criminal family, even my weedwacker thoughts | |
Whipping a thin plastic string to cut the ears of others as I sing | |
I miss van Gogh' s revenge, I miss his nightly binge | |
I miss spiders surrounding my bed and lifting me as if an effigy | |
Or a Dead King or a prophet of doom | |
A Jesus for the apocalypse wearing dirt like perfume | |
Or a mother for Satan or a ghost for all the children of abuse | |
And taking me into the fire watching me burn like a goose | |
As they sing in spider voices | |
There goes creation, there goes the moon | |
There goes the butterfly wanting a cocoon | |
I miss being a bloom and a goon | |
Waking up too soon, in the afternoon | |
A doctor of regret | |
Hanging onto guitar strings in tune | |
And hanging by a belt wrapped around some pipe to nowhere and felt | |
My lips too wrapped around what appears to be stained glass | |
As religious figures dress like rocks with class | |
Burn into gas to the center of my brain | |
The euphoria of dying and being born all at once | |
While wearing the hat that reads ' dunce' | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo | |
I Miss The Zoo |