Apt. A (2) Lyrics & Tabs by cLOUDDEAD
Apt. A (2)
guitar chords lyrics
She's calling me tonight
From just inside my lips
Betterment of the world through wish
Fall off, growing distant
And pull my face fresh
From the waxy palms it's kept soft in
To the fading of faith
Was the broken guitar
And my sister's silly
Slender and sexy curved
To break the bricks I bought
I should have never went to college
But took a trip to Costa Rica
Making up miss bobafetet as I go along
And rejecting the truths that i've been served
But took a trip to Costa Rica
Making up miss bobafetet as I go along
And rejecting the truths that i've been served
Tuition for my countenance
Pressed fine in reverse block
With these loafers and a check book
Twisted tightly into... into
Do you know how many times
I've thought about writing about the paper I'm writing on?
I lost my liquid tongue for the wet pen
I have one mortal wish
I don't even know where i've been
(in the basement, hugging the gas main.)
Something's been left out of this game
God, did you remember to render everything?
I've seen 1078 sundaysand
7 borders where the liquid meets land
I'm leaking into stoned and severed existence
I've been consumed by my own breath
Change of face, shapeless
Personality switch, transformation
So impersonation of self leads
Crowds in twos to disintegration
Who's in the basement choking a puppet on the pedestal?
Let a stool pigeon escort those who contort
Three doors down into the left door on the right hand side
My hand slides into pockets
Pull sockets of lead penalty
Entering the orbit of the morbid
Northern and southern hemispheres of play caps
Place time bombs and rose stems on your axle
Hole in faded ozone layer of doom
Sphere of babylon shield
Towering above gravity
Taking up space in a residence of stars
A touching story of ungrateful velcro skulled boy
With his tored-off face
And the life-sized sacked marionette
He'd thought looked an awful lot like him
(with his time told and mildewed
Baby clothes of a business man.)
Jerk... wackoff slumped
And he's tired, sick with bad posturing
Oh hell, there's a king of jungle in him yet
Give our young lad middle of america's valise
But spare the gauze, he's losing poet by the gallon
Bottom of the quicksand's gonna give him a
Whole lot less to think about
Than change that steel trap perspective would
I ain't a scared no more, to make a' the difference
Stolen heart, and a whole wide world to blame
I'm falling off the side of the boat
I'm falling off the side of the boat
Tomorrow tastes like poems and honeysuckle
I move slow cause the sky looks bluer
When you fuck the order of the day
Or the way the shelves were meant to fit
I wish I had a pair of stilts to wear
While I play the flute in some
Light-traffic hallway in my old high school
But these are only threats to the seated self
Maybe Spain is the open-faced smile
From some life I saw in a movie
And always thought i'd live
