Tytuł: Gotta lotta walls

• Wykonawca: Atmosphere
• Wyświetleń: 323

Dialed up his homie Murs on the telephone
   Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong
   Brain freezing up, he don't know what to do
   But the people that know him know that it ain't nothing new
   Catch five rings, then an answering machine
   Hang up on the beep, stare up towards the ceiling
   Stood up to remember that he slept fully-dressed
   So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat's nest
   Stepped up to that big outside
   Somebody once said "Today's a good day to die."
   But he never really was a big fan of their work
   So he starts up the walk by kicking sand in the dirt
   A friend to the strangers, a stranger to friends
   He'll take a coffee and a pack of cigarettes when you have a minute
   Handle it. Paid up. The change, you can keep it
   He's a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage
   If you knew him better he'd ask for some time
   Cuz he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind
   And there's only so much he can put in a song
   Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong
  
   (Hook 2X)
   And this house has gotta lotta walls
   But only very few mean anything to you
   And this house has gotta lotta walls
   But only very few mean anything to you
  
   No shop value to titillate
   Far from shallow, so get it straight
   Blacktop, sidewalk,and the street
   Cuz life is priceless and talk is cheap
   And as he sits (as he sits) in his four-cornered room
   Following a tune, born to consume
   Carefully learning and analyzing the lyrics you use
   Finally realizing that humility is a bruise
   Scared love don't make none
   If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones
   Watching this man, falling off of his plan-
   Underachievin' just so he can understand. (Crazy reverse speech.)
  
   (Hook)
  
   So, who did your tattoos?
   That's nice
   And who built your tabboos?
   That's life
   If he had a glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists
   But someone already beat him to it
   He would fingerpaint you a picture with his blood
   A self-portrait, dramatic and morbid
   But the odds of you finding any appreciation are too slim-
   Keeps his outlook grim
   Tap his foot to the rhythm of original sin
   Throw his balls to the wind trying to know down these pins
   He'll keep swinging from the hair above his chin
   Till he finds his soul in the fifty cent bin
   The price of the payphone escalates
   Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates
   He could write another hate-poem for you to break
   Or maybe stay calm and wait for that big earthquake
   Still surrounded by the fire and the water
   Still trying to honor this empire's daughter
   Still answering questions you're afraid to ask
   Still believing that God's gonna save his ass
  
   (Hook)
  
   If you knew him better he'd ask for some time
   Cuz he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind
   And there's only so much he can put in a song
   Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong