From the recordings Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements and Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements (Streaming)
Lyrics
{Ditty} I’m sick of having fun, honestly. What gives one the right to say that their time spent is more worthwhile? I’m starving out my stomach lining boundary. That’ll be the day the tables turn. At least by then I’ll amount to that, which is not now; mine is handicapped. Parked indeterminate, terming inert, and vertically permanent posture. The work to get work heard has got a kink in the wire. Tap my focus—is tone deaf. The motive is bonehead per severe perseverance, like that matters to most dead. Bodies stagger: loss average. Mock onslaught: flaunt, taunt cauliflower. Cut the rope. Hope? Nope. Not unless for me: a quid pro quo moat around a minister kingpin. Ipso facto, wacko bitstrips and a three course meal in Instagram pics. When I Ting Ting it’s not my label, amidst the ladel-fed—is hypocritical. Wix is for your shit life blog, excess sod, celebrated delicacy, extra sauce: sentimental, mental offering. You spent how much money on a fucking wedding ring? Ignoranting idiocracy can rot at rock bottom. No one needs to fucking hear about your first world problems. {Hook: Kiki, Evan (& Ditty)} I know you want everything, (and some...) but there are bigger things at play than the fallacy that life’s imaginary mansion mastery. (I got money on that 1%’s got all of the money). You want a preservation reservation. Reparations, at whose expense? I know a dead man walking. (Entitlement’s a bitch. Dollars unit is a human life measurement). {Ditty} All bets off. Halloween murder-spree impending: a wrenching of every tool in the tool shed. Deadened like the harvesting of money trees in October-autumn, by winter it’ll bear no fruit. Fa-so-la-ti-do: my routine, rooted rudimentary. Aristocratic gallivanting outside of the cemetery. Seminary set of semblance: how to know my knowledge. This paper in my pocket supercedes what’s in my head. Haddock-home and elapsed don’t and cannot hope to command a throne: an evil below the sea to where you pass the sharded remains—unknown. I keep on telling myself that I’m just naturally selected. I guess, in turn, the worthlesser are naturally infected. Affected, like you and I are of the bourgeoisies. Or like I’m struggling to keep myself not poor, while it’s carving jack-o-lantern cavity to digest pit on another level pursuit of a happiness. {MEDEK} I pledge allegiance to the thought of labor less and earn more. Never searching for the treasure—I’m assured that it’ll wash ashore. Not bored; too absorbed in counting all my have-nots, blinded by the ego telling us that we don’t have enough. Escalating your credit debt; the minimums become hardly met. Head’s barely above the water, but the tide looks low from where I sit. In seek of the Golden Ticket, chasing fame because we’re insecure. Take it from Veruca Salt—you’ll end up with what you deserve. Now concerned, you look outside the box, ‘cause nothing’s in it. In the hopes of gathering the types of things that truly are lifes riches. No need to be suspicious of the man with less who smiles more. I’m willing to bet he’s happier than anyone who’ll give him credit for walking to the corner store, ignoring all those magazines—soliciting your attention for excess in others’ dreams. Facebook culture is a petri dish of continence-illiterate. Practice life fulfillment, not filling life with shit. {Bridge: Kiki & Evan} You and who don’t account for every second of the day spent working harder for the same made by the same decision making on a whim to which you risk what you have worked for in accordance to the promise that you one day will be just like them.