Something in the vein of the cities on the plain
Containing decades knitted into single thought
Before your empty hearse contributed a verse
It drove in figure 8’s of endless parking lots
Our songs stood idly by as they raised the ridge beam high
And once the recompense of senses had begun
Your maladjusted eyes shouted out “anaesthetized
Castration en masse, anyone?”
Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pipe
[don’t you think it’s time?]
Something in the vein, a blockage in the brain
And if it’s all the same I’ll graciously decline
That dread night you heard I heard you came with tender words
And all the proper paperwork to sign
Now when his ghost comes in to finally rest its phantom limbs
And I again begin to fill your flask with tea:
“you think you’ve spent your years in search of something real?
But you would’ve failed the same
Child, if you were me.”
Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pipe
Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pédophile
Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pipe
[don’t you think it’s time to take your fangs out of my mind?]
