CORRECT LYRICS
Lyrics : karl drogo sighs
I bought a book of Rumi poems
And on the back cover I wrote it all out
About word of mouth
I knew about now, how the time would pa**
I'd seen glimpses of fine art portraits by the masters
But this is an HD filming of disaster
My heart shattered like a stained gla** mosaic
That sold on a clearance rack
Of an ugly store with a name like Martins
I beg your pardon
It was like looking at a Youtube video of a sunset
With a well functioning dialup connection
It was trying so hard and still coming up short
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
Leave me here, I'll save myself
I'm the kind of person made for hell
Let's dedicate this to Dave Chappelle
How do you write songs in so little time?
I spent my whole life working on this
I spent my whole life
My whole life is spent
It's like eating Go-Gurt and cutting the sides of your mouth
It's like driving one of those bicycles
With the very large front wheel
And very small back wheel
And being oblivious to criticism
It's like writing papers that are not in MLA format
It's like laying yourself down as your lover's doormat
It's like being the tambourinist in a quartet
It's like singing hymnals and needing more breath
I'm not sure of it, I'm guessing it's like being your father's surrogate
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
To be a cog in the machine
To be a stick of RAM
To write songs that are simple
To abandon vanity
To withdraw from verbosity
Which is in itself verbose
To function like CPUs
White people who become vegans for the wrong reasons
It didn't make itself clear to me at the time
It was for the best like
"You better shave that mustache for Grandad's wake"
The hand of fate, this hand is fake
An astral projection
I'm both object and subject
Like driving for too long with bum sweat
Perhaps before we once met we were the same person
Then we named the same urges
It's a disaster, bruh
I do not know my own diaspora
Like regimented dialysis
Rap about the phallus tips
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
And I'm nervous still
And on the back cover I wrote it all out
About word of mouth
I knew about now, how the time would pa**
I'd seen glimpses of fine art portraits by the masters
But this is an HD filming of disaster
My heart shattered like a stained gla** mosaic
That sold on a clearance rack
Of an ugly store with a name like Martins
I beg your pardon
It was like looking at a Youtube video of a sunset
With a well functioning dialup connection
It was trying so hard and still coming up short
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
Leave me here, I'll save myself
I'm the kind of person made for hell
Let's dedicate this to Dave Chappelle
How do you write songs in so little time?
I spent my whole life working on this
I spent my whole life
My whole life is spent
It's like eating Go-Gurt and cutting the sides of your mouth
It's like driving one of those bicycles
With the very large front wheel
And very small back wheel
And being oblivious to criticism
It's like writing papers that are not in MLA format
It's like laying yourself down as your lover's doormat
It's like being the tambourinist in a quartet
It's like singing hymnals and needing more breath
I'm not sure of it, I'm guessing it's like being your father's surrogate
My God, I'm so nervous
One of these persons lacks a purpose
My God, I'm so nervous
To be a cog in the machine
To be a stick of RAM
To write songs that are simple
To abandon vanity
To withdraw from verbosity
Which is in itself verbose
To function like CPUs
White people who become vegans for the wrong reasons
It didn't make itself clear to me at the time
It was for the best like
"You better shave that mustache for Grandad's wake"
The hand of fate, this hand is fake
An astral projection
I'm both object and subject
Like driving for too long with bum sweat
Perhaps before we once met we were the same person
Then we named the same urges
It's a disaster, bruh
I do not know my own diaspora
Like regimented dialysis
Rap about the phallus tips
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
The palace drips and I'm nervous still
And I'm nervous still
