aesop rock - jazz hands lyrics
love note to the whole f+ck show
post marked from a light house and the blunt smoke
dear mother f+ckers i’m t++tering, if you must know
wolf at the door, like a bug to the fructose
niece on the phone, saying “ian, you should visit more
we could build forts, while the pigs court civil war
miss you.”
miss you more
see you on the far side
scuffed shoes, couple new scars in the archive
i’m not here to pull scarves out
here to pick tumblers under water with his arms bound
from in chains to the heart of “where art thou”
i’m out there, down to throw grapnel at a guard tower
down to spray p+ss on a cop car
it’s rage in a form’a renaissance art
can’t treat it like a job at the stock yard
and feign shocked when they turn the block to a pock mark
stock parts knockin’ on mach one of camp lo
amped up, eyes glowing unknowin’ pantones
drive til’ it feels like a van gogh
lest i cheetha me some antelope
partly cloudy palpable panic in a troposphere
wig a giant polka bear, we don’t do smoke and mirrors
we do do a med kit and spare clothes
leave a f+cker no where close
new super power i picked up in a frenzy
i can draw a roof on fire from memory
each and every sketch another bloodletting
in a wake of escalation and excessive rubber necking
the champ can’t look up away; drink it in
strobe light, smoke, no life, no life guard; sink or swim
ring around the king of pain
bring acetaminophen
you either see the vision or dinner with demolition men
boom: flame to the fuse to the barrel
i step into the room, split an arrow with an arrow
the first trick shot is just to show em that i dabble
i will not be aiming for the apple
lately, i treat every interaction as a living wake
thankin’ people close to me before the photo pixilate
new day folk down to play the game different
changed, and go from being chased to playing chicken
get your whole road map pac+man’d
black mask, snack on what ever’s in the dash cam
it’s not an at, hashtag, or a tap dance
patsy the revolution will not have jazz hands
i know you’re really gonna matters the heart and mind
the sh+t that makes you park the car and scream into the dark’a night
some days i wanna build a rocket to the kármán line
ten, nine, eight; keep your head and arms inside, yeah
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