Black Rose Songtext
Songtext powered by LyricFind
I hear ooo's and ahh's when I jump off my garage. People treat me like I'm dying from a cause ?
?
don't need your money don't need your company.
do need that filthy middle finger out my cup a tea.
like if it takes one to bleed and two to make the bleeding stop. I'd rather leave a trail of blood.
now It's two thousand and uh I'm still kickin' like old habits.
still stickin' with no address or mattress now half this life spent in this gate
shoes been spent walkin' to the beat of a breakthrough.
I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers, make a new fan
cut a ruged loop
?
don't need your money don't need your company.
do need that filthy middle finger out my cup a tea.
like if it takes one to bleed and two to make the bleeding stop. I'd rather leave a trail of blood.
now It's two thousand and uh I'm still kickin' like old habits.
still stickin' with no address or mattress now half this life spent in this gate
shoes been spent walkin' to the beat of a breakthrough.
I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers, make a new fan
cut a ruged loop
?
break some baselines tryin' to discover some peace on the freight-lines.
nine hollows and I'm feelin' like a 50 spot.
channelin' my lady luck see what that gypsies got.
she's lookin' up today smiling at the thunderstorm playing her tiny violin to keep my hunger warm.
while a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons I write my songs singin' so long to holy heathens.
Like credence to your good riddens. It's time to come back so come back.
I came to pigeon hole the skeptics
while I address my Minnesota ethics.
give a g*ddamn f*ck if the children don't respect it.
my name is Cecil f*ckin' Otter not Dylan goes electric.
so who's that peekin' in my window right now,
I don't know but I can see the interest in their eyebrow.
I bow to the dying day of my inner works my medium is extra large until I'm in the dirt.
my fingers hurt from all these over anxious brush strokes.
sometimes I'm not looking I wind up in cut throats.
?
so from that circus cannon that you shot me through. to smoking poison in the boys room with the motley crew.
talk me through this with the coffee or the newest fixative.
and you'll just say the music at risk to his self but he sticks to his guns till they stick to you.
keeps twistin' his tongue and it'll spit to you.
sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions but he don't sleep 'cause sleep is the reapers cousin.
and he's a holy ghost hunter. Steve Perry street talker eating some moldy toast under my beef whopper small city beat jocker addicted to the hawk n spit off beat beat boxer who thinks he's rockin' it hip hop kins kid with a mouth full of dynamite.
?
I came to pigeon hole the skeptics
while I address my Minnesota ethics.
give a g*ddamn f*ck if the children don't respect it.
my name is Cecil f*ckin' Otter not Dylan goes electric.
break some baselines tryin' to discover some peace on the freight-lines.
nine hollows and I'm feelin' like a 50 spot.
channelin' my lady luck see what that gypsies got.
she's lookin' up today smiling at the thunderstorm playing her tiny violin to keep my hunger warm.
while a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons I write my songs singin' so long to holy heathens.
Like credence to your good riddens. It's time to come back so come back.
I came to pigeon hole the skeptics
while I address my Minnesota ethics.
give a g*ddamn f*ck if the children don't respect it.
my name is Cecil f*ckin' Otter not Dylan goes electric.
so who's that peekin' in my window right now,
I don't know but I can see the interest in their eyebrow.
I bow to the dying day of my inner works my medium is extra large until I'm in the dirt.
my fingers hurt from all these over anxious brush strokes.
sometimes I'm not looking I wind up in cut throats.
?
so from that circus cannon that you shot me through. to smoking poison in the boys room with the motley crew.
talk me through this with the coffee or the newest fixative.
and you'll just say the music at risk to his self but he sticks to his guns till they stick to you.
keeps twistin' his tongue and it'll spit to you.
sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions but he don't sleep 'cause sleep is the reapers cousin.
and he's a holy ghost hunter. Steve Perry street talker eating some moldy toast under my beef whopper small city beat jocker addicted to the hawk n spit off beat beat boxer who thinks he's rockin' it hip hop kins kid with a mouth full of dynamite.
?
I came to pigeon hole the skeptics
while I address my Minnesota ethics.
give a g*ddamn f*ck if the children don't respect it.
my name is Cecil f*ckin' Otter not Dylan goes electric.
Songtext powered by LyricFind