|
Make this *****t sound a little raw |
|
Not a day passes that the glass doesn't spill |
|
Because my happiness and sadness interact before the thrill |
|
I'm a magnet to distractions and haphazard fill |
|
Then a hazardous feel, feeling panic but still |
|
The manic man's mechanic's been ended and killed |
|
Like they slipped him a pill of Ritalin [?] |
|
But the real ordeal |
|
That will seal the notion was [concerned to?] |
|
Now concerting with the [?] |
|
Cos I'm who they heard of, an alien to earth |
|
Like I'm the Silver Surfer, plus [Yerpa?] |
|
In a burner, made them all a little bit sterner |
|
But I never rush the slow learner |
|
Just plant the seeds so they see and grow further |
|
The glass [?] |
|
Still I'm blue, looking Grover |
|
Cos some years went over |
|
And my dearest still ain't steering over |
|
So I'm hoping for a clover |
|
To help me win it over |
|
[Chorus]x2 |
|
Life moves fast when you're rapped or a task |
|
And it's cries and it's laughs in this harmony glass |
|
It spills and refills and they all seem to clash |
|
This future is past in this harmony glass |
|
A quarter to my cup runneth over |
|
Still I'm sober |
|
So I take it back to half with some jazz bossanova |
|
The floor is my composure before the spills cross |
|
And expose the loner who's [bold didn't those throw them into a comas?] |
|
All about that dough, no Homer |
|
And I'm no condoner, just don't erupt your ****r |
|
Blowing [?], so the aroma's in the [?] stuck show with |
|
No ****s, I just stroll with the funk |
|
Plus a bit of punk, and crunk, soul and bumping trunk |
|
But the junk got them drunk |
|
So my glass adds up |
|
Had enough of the bad luck |
|
But corresponding to a [?] didn't have a chuck |
|
Cos I go for goals like hockey pucks |
|
And they plotting to stop but could not conduct |
|
I've got a glass that's filled |
|
But I will clean it up |
|
In the next refill, I'm gonna fill to the [top?] |
|
[Chorus]x5 |
