Lyricist’s Watch is about the lyrics.
LISTEN to the single:
Beltway Lapse
Transcontinental Drift
Bells
Night of Good Luck
City the Swamp
Mean Reds
Beltway Laps(e)
Blow’n Smoke
Transcontinental Drift
Solitude
Gutters
Smoke Rings
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TransContinental Drift
Bells (instrumental)
“I’m Sam Spade” — Humphrey Bogart
Night of Good Luck
Kicking my feet and I’m howling at the moon
Dance in the Darkness to a video game tune
I’m stumbling and flailing like I’ve been hit by a truck
Deep after Dark on a Night of Goodluck
Drinking a hundred pack down at the park
It was long after luck on a night of Good Dark
We’ll all fight each other and then we’ll All fuck
Deep after Dark on a Night of Goodluck
Deep after Dark on a Night of Goodluck
Deep after Dark on a Night of Goodluck
Let’s all go Driving i hear myself say
you shouldn’t be driving you’ve been drinking all day
THIS IS NO TIME FOR COWARDICE I say with some Pluck
Deep after Dark on a Night of Goodluck
Hauling ass downtown the deserted government
I find myself smoking at the Jefferson monument
I Thank God It’s Tuesdayed on my founding father’s grave (memory)
Jesus might help you, but I’ll never be saved
City The Swamp
the city the swamp at deep after dark
there’re bodies in the river and drugs in the park
don’t leave your home if you here the pop pop (pop pop pop)
this is Washington DC the city the swamp
the city the swamp where leadership is hard to find
while our cookie-cutter politicians hide behind party lines
Madison knew two party system was an open sewer,
the only way to fight corruption’s return the individual to power.
The city the swamp what a capitol town
Where the Bureaucratic sieve keeps the tyrants from hangin’ round
our stagnant stream of consciousness has finally slowed to a stop
here in washington, DC the city the swamp
Mean Reds
Got a fake identity burned off my finger prints
this is how I tripped across the world for just 79 cents
Tabs from Texas and bread from Paris
and a sand painting from the Beduin desert
Well, I got so thirsty in the desert
that I clearly lost my sense… (solo)
bought a Starbucks coffee in Jerusalem,
and it cost me my soul/79 cents
Beltway Laps(e)
the Miles fly by, the speedometer rise
it’s so hard to ignore her sparkling Eyes
Well the fool who falls is the fool who dies
bury me now, I hope she’ll cry
I’m searching for something don’t expect to find
between the stars and this Yellow Line
if this what Blind men see then I’ll stay Blind
follow this Road till the end of Time
rain pours down through my open window
freeway system and two wandering souls
window pane between the fingers of my hand
every type of pain is composed of sand
(ponder that one…)
Blowing Smoke
it’s all this killing time that’s killing me
No account drifter but at least I’m free
pass time recallin’ all the words that you spoke,
when I run outta memory I can only blow smoke
You know, circumstance
she bares the sharpest teeth
never knew heart ache tasted so sweet
I wander the highlands till my stories told
and I soak up country bourbon through my worn out shoe-soles
so hard to see through these bloodshot eyes
Why would I sleep when I could drive to the sunrise
Transcontinental Drift
The smoke of a thousand cigarettes, the freedom of no regrets
With echos of my wasted youth, I drive to the break of day
These interstates are captivating, who knows who may lie waiting
When I reach the end of this roadway, and dawn creeps into the sky
Smoke fills up my rearview mirror, my vision now is so much clearer
with no rest and no regrets, and echos of my wasted youth,
I drive to the break of day
Humanity is held at bay, distracted and led astray,
like unfinished cigarettes left in the ashtray. You have to doubt the chosen way,
just broaden horizons and You’ll…
be free
Smoke over Los Angles, my arm in the air my hand in a fist
Cursing this sweet circumstance, I’m westward all the way
This infinite boredom has taken its toll, just drift to the transcontinental drum roll
I don’t have to save a single sole; just broaden horizons and you’ll…
be free
here comes the six-legged spider comprised of the ashes of soles of the innocent,
and here comes your moth-eaten conscience asking who in this greedy world was ever born innocent,
and here comes the chameleon corruption pillaging all prospects of peaceful existence,
and here comes the insect self-doubt perpetuating the stereotype that nothing is possible.
Now here comes the boxer with the welder’s mask head yelling ‘What’s In Your Wallet, What’s in Your Wallet’
and here’s the shadow with the Cheshire-cat grin― GRIN CHESHIRE–
watching you, watching you, watching you always…
THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR…
BUT FEAR ITSELF
Solitude
Nothing to do as I walk empty streets
time on my hands
boots on my feet
Consciousness
is a puff of smoke
and time time time is the wind
are you ready?
are you ready?
everyone I’ve known
is gonna die alone
that why I got to find
that solitude
Pity for the Train Tracks (a poem)
pity for the train-tracks
never going where they head
pity for the riverbed
always left behind
pity for the eggshell
whose bird has flown away
pity for my foot prints
always left behind
Just like Pity
always leave it behind
Gutters
I got these suspenders made of guitar strings
got the hawk’s eye and the butterfly wings
to the peak of the mountain where I see everything
come on
might find a few thoughts in this episode
Universal consciousness download
images well woven, ideas well sowed
come on
Middle finger of youth will swiftly fly by
live for fun, then, then grow old till you die
running scared punk, best way to survive,
oh no…
it’s Raining roses, it’s snowing sand
my dreams make me every mile of a man
Don’t know how to love but I know how to stand
oh no
SOOO, I float to the top of the unending stair, where
met a masked angel waiting for me there
smoke at both ends then morn the flare,
come on
Got these suspenders made of guitar strings
got the hawks eye and the butterfly wings
to the peak of the mountain where I see everything
come on
To the Peak of the Mountain
are we there yet?
are we there yet?
Don’t wanna go home,
don’t wanna go home.
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