Lyrics: Rory Ferreira/SAMUEL THOMPSON HERRING
Music: Kenny Segal
What'd you say?
Even softer on thatβ
Oh, my fault
Lately I've been regressing back to that whole young man staring into death thing
Maybe it's a midlife crisis
Maybe I'm just wrestling
Depression has a way of sneaking up from out the west wing
Fearing death and the collider
I side-eyed the scyther and heavily swung towards the drums I'm testing
Today's the day I decided not to swallow the gun
On my way to the sun
I stared breathless from a 500-ton tyrant
To a world silent
And remembered I'm just an animal
And I'm not even supposed to be here
But I'm destined
The honest truth of life and living
Sometimes the pressure makes me aggressive
I've been thinking I should get back into drugs
Or dream more
So I sit around and think more
Sometimes I eat more
It's all a mechanism of religion, as a non-believer
When I was a youngin they said that I should be a preacher
I'd have more money but be less eager
Less funny
And that humor allows me to laugh in the face of it all
Be less embarrassed
One time I shit my pants flying to Phoenix
After I got food poisoning in Paris
But I rose
Some days later to play the show
And that was the flu game
Abe knows
Inspired by my emptiness
Lightheaded sipping ginger beer
Sleaze of crackers, hobbit tears
Take me back to Ohiwa beach
The sickness never kept me from being a force to reach
Or one to teach
Just forced the course to show persistence against resistance
And that's the thing
How you just can't make sense out of me
Master key
Swing open the gates of heaven in the key of G
Swing low, sweet chariots in the key of D
I'm not concerned with what they think of me
Light sleeper, late utopian, yeet the knee
Pipe dreamer, night schemer
Wayne Shorter type mouth breather
I'm asking Santa for a rifle repeater
A couple good eaters
This for the penny-pinchers and hoodwinkers
I'm tryna build a whole clan
An old man counting grains of sand in Sudan
I'm not listening
I'm calm, meditating
Massaging my palms
Hovering seven inches off the Earth crust
Ate mud and burped dust
The belt was known for rust
I felt compelled to never budge
I tried to tell them
We in league with the stones of the field
Sit here long as it takes, and even still passed that
Up upon her face
Were the lost and strange years
Upon her face
Are the lost and strange years