(no subject)
When Our Opinions Speak Too Loudly
They didn't try to make him cry!
He wanted to be heard, and that's what he got!
His voice, it shook like thunder
through an army of slow-cooked men
with slow-cooked ideals
fed by slow-cooked childhoods;
Heavy, scared, running.
So he dug and he dug.
Families stared, families wondered.
They covered their children's eyes;
In disgust, and in delight!
We just tilted our heads, and then our eyebrows!
His voice was just a scratch;
A thin vinyl disc spinning beneath his canines.
And thus:
He became a remix of a man!
He wanted to be heard, and he was overplayed;
And all that while we were bleeding from our ears,
enjoying the sunshine, sucking up the senile sand(!);
Nobody expected that he would break into his grave
from thousands of miles underground!
Now he's locked himself in
And he insists that he won't come out
Until the sun comes down
and smokes him out of his hole.
But it's on its way down
and it's marching with the moon;
They're carrying their shovels on their backs
singing mildly suggestive work songs:
"Oh, whenever we're trapped down in here,
We're all dying to fry
Like the sweat and grit and cobwebs
Between your legs and mine!"
They didn't try to make him cry!
He wanted to be heard, and that's what he got!
His voice, it shook like thunder
through an army of slow-cooked men
with slow-cooked ideals
fed by slow-cooked childhoods;
Heavy, scared, running.
So he dug and he dug.
Families stared, families wondered.
They covered their children's eyes;
In disgust, and in delight!
We just tilted our heads, and then our eyebrows!
His voice was just a scratch;
A thin vinyl disc spinning beneath his canines.
And thus:
He became a remix of a man!
He wanted to be heard, and he was overplayed;
And all that while we were bleeding from our ears,
enjoying the sunshine, sucking up the senile sand(!);
Nobody expected that he would break into his grave
from thousands of miles underground!
Now he's locked himself in
And he insists that he won't come out
Until the sun comes down
and smokes him out of his hole.
But it's on its way down
and it's marching with the moon;
They're carrying their shovels on their backs
singing mildly suggestive work songs:
"Oh, whenever we're trapped down in here,
We're all dying to fry
Like the sweat and grit and cobwebs
Between your legs and mine!"