11 tracks on wax. Contains insert with lyrics and special notes from both Swordplay and Pierre the Motionless. **ORDERING INSTRUCTIONS** Please contact before ordering for international shipping rates and/or estimated delivery time. Due to special circumstances, orders may not be shipped until several months after purchase date. Shipping is only guaranteed within eight months of ordering. We apologize for the inconvenience.
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Swordplay and Pierre the Motionless met on the infamous online musician dating site MySpace in its heyday circa 2007. Recognizing an inherent compatibility in both sound and language, the bilingual duo began to craft tracks together, beginning with the remix of 64 Bit from Swordplay’s 2005 Tilt EP and a melodious ode to the relentless lifestyle of touring DIY artists entitled No Sleep. These would be the first two songs written for what has evolved into a long-lasting friendship and collaborative project which has spawned the full-length Swordplay & Pierre the Motionless album Tap Water with the support of French record label Dora Dorovitch.
The music of Swordplay & Pierre the Motionless combines aggressive vocal deliveries with the somber architecture of a beat-maker flirting between jazz and folk.
While still living under the umbrella of underground hip-hop, this unique creature comfortably bends genres, crosses borders and takes no prisoners.
Pretending to be hip-hop for more than five years now, Pierre the Motionless is actually just some French guy making beats that even your 50 year-old embittered aunt would like. Those who know him will tell you that this beloved husband and father is more emo than first impressions would suggest, and if that doesn’t sound OG enough for you, most rappers call him Papa Pierre. Collaborations with artists like Astronautalis and Thesis Sahib have brought his music to larger audiences across continents, and the release of the full-length album Inertia of an Accent at Rest by his group Motionless was followed by a tour of the US and Canada in 2009. With so many important friends in high places and a considerable amount of theoretically possible gang-activity that they could engage in, it looks like Pierre will not be leaving the world of indie hip-hop anytime soon.
Swordplay, however, is an unpredictable, wild-eyed activist poet and travelling emcee who has even been called Isaac Ramsey by his loved ones on different occasions. Making raps since 2004, Swordplay’s sociopolitical commentaries reveal an avid love for piss and vinegar, and the lyrical content has attracted new audiences in the US who can relate to the themes of corporate capitalism, urban decay, mass disillusionment, love and war. After the release of The Tilt EP  and the follow up album Cellars and Attics , Swordplay departed in 2009 to tour Europe and South America, eventually landing in El Salvador where he spent time teaching creative writing and handmade musical instrument workshops for young artists. Today, Swordplay continues to teach, learn and perform raps relentlessly in his hometown of Richmond, VA, with increasing activity from his mouthy indie rock band Double Rainbow who made their unexpected debut in 2010 with the release of Fuck the Internet.
Même si les emcees m’aiment pour ma zik, in a tweaked out twilight I’ll be kicking it while they sleep. Something in the cosmos caught me off guard and it got my head all spinning. Akin to venom, economy got me to dance to the wrong rhythm. Stopped wondering who would shoot a John Lennon because I’m innocent. Kick me in the throat and knock me down. Fill these lungs with smoke til they say I’m safe and sound. Rearrange clouds that make faces at me until I may say “wow” I need a getaway vacation with a getaway rental car and some heavy medication. Either way, it’s about 2008, and I’m about to break down and steadily losing my patience with you. You a little delusional, confused and used to it too simple with a truth like Crucible exclusive view from the back of the pews to the Jews in Jerusalem, truthfully a two bit Muslim youth in America with too much booze in him. And the proof of my muse is a useless unamused putain de conasse de merde the international crack whores won’t translate because they don’t care, either that or because she’s not dead, and only I can see the way she grooves when she moves her head to my music. I’ve hung on to the clues as she loosens the thread and I lose it. In consciousness I’ve hit the snooze already ready for bed. Please bartender, tell me what the correct damage is. I’ve seen it written down now in two languages. My advantage is offering adjectives to starving savages at the lavish parties where they meet, but I’ve been moonlighting now as a writer (I think) waiting to peak. The landscape is decidingly bleak. So I’ll be kicking a tweaked out twilight while they sleep. All the alarms were carefully ignored. You know sleep (no sleep) never sounded like this before. No sleep never sounded like this before. And along the floor bodies lay where bodies tour on no sleep. No sleep never sounded like this before. I want to be on the road with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a backpack full of roman candles, but I’m not. I’m at home with a guitar hero about to drink another rum n’ coca cola cherry zero. I’ve seen smoke signals in moments of local insurgency and America cloaked in urgency with US currency currently falling faster than the sky. I used to think that I was able to fly. Now I’m selling my dead grandmother’s Ford Taurus to repay the debt of a plane ticket I thought I could once afford, but I was overly confident because no matter how young I’ve learned that it’s not safe to travel in times of war, which I’ve certainly got inside of me and like Iraq it’s bad for sure. It smells like somebody put oil in my heart and I’m just tap water to my core. You know sleep never sounded quite like this before.
Track Name: Conversation Skills
We’ll always be standing in the middle of a lemonade stand line on Idlewood about to smash a piñata in half (and standing proudly). Let go of that remote control and roll off onto the volcano slope. Hit the low notes and cope. Stomach knots and lips locked to the lymph nodes. Maintain concentration and have patience with the telescope. Ropes tied to my shoulders, I’m unearthing boulders, watching them float up into the sky into constellations that were never there in the first place. No consolation prize like a Medicaid paycheck. I provide a specific type of entertainment waging war lazily on pavement, doing 360s in wheelchairs with no healthcare. I'm in a different dimension but tell my lawyers and doctors I’ll send em in. Bring in the offensive sentiments and the acetaminophen. It doesn’t matter to the madmen. I’m back with a phenomenal grin. I’ve gone adrenaline binging again and again (and my friends, ninjas with the win). Me, I’m some narcoleptic in a racecar driving around the bend. I got too bent up and ended up in a permanent REM, but it’s no way to go. I am the insomniac. In the day time I play the part of the maniac. To start with, I got a lack of cognac. So this thirsty heart’s up at night to the sound of living room laughter. I make art unmarketable and expect it to pay me back after the fact. I play the piano poorly. Pierre, pour me a glass. I’m sick with acidic capacity and long lasting. I only get dressed up now for the occasion I can watch two hearts carve each other out in their awkward conversation (anecdotes, jokes, tricks of the trade, personal politics). It’s getting on my nerves now. I’ll be with the widows when they’re in your window waving. Then I’ll try to behave. With uninformed votes and covenants made (sexual politics), let’s set a precedent of mischief. I like a little trouble sometimes. My face all painted like brave. With cannonball hopes, fish in the grave, personal relationships… It’s enough to make me breakdown. Pulling out a canine, laughing at a phantom, choking on that culpable smoke and then the manila envelopes, a debt to be paid, sexual relationships... I’m happy I don’t worry anymore and I’m feeling just fine.
Track Name: Papier Mâché
I’m made of papier-mâché. When I wake up, it’s lights out and then I like to wander away. Well, I’ve been skull fucked with a musket. And I don’t trust it. I’m rusty like lusting after young love with no substance. I’ve stumbled my way out of a jungle tumbling all about without making any footprints, and I’m stuck in the pit with cottonmouth and no limbs. In a belligerent Zen. I must have been up daydreaming on a GRTC city bus again. A combustible engine. Water pumps and skin. Simon says nothing of note to sovereign men. I dream of then and your words, and I need a pinch. An aluminum bat in my face and I won’t flinch. And I don’t give a fuck about how much he can bench. See, there’s money on the line and money’s money all the time, but this time I’m in line for a live show mindfuck. I’m spinning with the Fan blades. I’m dancing on a table with a hand grenade. Tap dance. Three a.m. Strange arcades. Arcane matter. Sound fades… Ear wax made of forgotten memories, I pick at it with a pick axe and pixilated skew on things perhaps. The nuances sting. And I don’t get gravity or self-made maps. It never happened. It was bound to collapse. I’m on that same plane with a fate that I can’t cash. Have you ever met a pack of scientists that could not split an atom? I’m picking it apart and spittin the littlest bits at em. Adam and Eve’s coffin. A sleeping bag for two. Use fabric softener often. I got Planet Earth and a bionic dolphin. But you’re in the middle of a kissing contest. Walk up in the club with radioactive bling. Get carried away on a pterodactyl wing. Personal attack, I castle my king, take the cockpit and make the captain sing. Sing me to sleep. I’m on my feet. I’ve got a secret that I really can’t keep but it reeks of insincerity, and five years later I don’t dare to say “prepare yourself for disparity” because I am a parody of my former self. No clarity like time on a watch on a wrist in a fight. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m made of papier-mâché. When I wake up, it’s light out and then I like to wander away…
Track Name: When the Hurricane Comes
I’ve lost it all often. Put me in the Washington office of a coffin that I belong in then. I’m stuck in my stock options and politics. I’m too talkative, if I may begin. Because these common men, they never get caught caterwauling and off the wall throwing caution to the wind or pretend Molotovs at apostles. All they want’s a bottle of klonopins. I’m swallowing the toxins in. Run out of oxygen running a thousand city blocks in my moccasins. I wander in, up into the center of a city grid hollering olly olly oxen. I speak to the fossils. I dig em up and dust em off, down to the joint where the lone god hobbles. I turn em into novels. Spit em back out from the back of my tobacco painted tonsils every day. I got a gift shop sling shot. I point it at these robot cop drones now flown above. I’m setting up shopping carts in parking lots to settle with the winds when the hurricane comes… I’m living in a prison with invisible friends who dream of freedom because it does not exist. I will not resist. Make the arrest. I’m a victim of a problematic radical thought process. I predicted the cataclysm: a typical vision left on in my mind in hypnotic display. I will not be okay. I will not be okay. I will not be okay. Make the arrest. Because common sense is an inadequate defense tactic non-applicable to the digital model and modern day killers control their missiles on a desk top. I’m looking at the box like “is this thing on?” We’re living in the middle of a prison where the wealth is hither and thither and yon. Broadcast the hologram (a cinematic vision of a pop icon). I sing a love song to the activists who don’t put their money where their mouth is or talk about Vietnam in a Pentagon food court. No, you know better than that (that venom attached to the militant’s split lip). Pacifists with the laughing gas set sail for the Baghdad discotheque (a capitalist free market suicidal cybernetic invention). Fiddle with chemical alignment and speak my mind when I’m in suspension but don’t mention that I’m a mess. I’m a criminal in distress. Put in the kennel, I’m a ketamine-colored enemy combatant with no contest. Make progress like weather machines and atomic bombs. I hope to Gasoline that I find my planet one day. I’m living in a prison with invisible friends who dream of freedom because it does not exist. I will not resist. Make the arrest. I’m a victim of a problematic radical thought process. I predicted the cataclysm: a typical vision left on in my mind in hypnotic display. I will not be okay. I will not be okay. I will not be okay. Make the arrest.
Track Name: No Teleportation
Faucets make medicine for madmen. Deliver me dilemma with generous lessons. Offer the message but the message is often not complicit with the manner in which it’s delivered. Then if it’s a question of ethical safeguard, I keep mine tight. Analyze the content. Then I sort out the bullshit and available nonsense. I rap don’t stop no consequence. Lubricated cubicle found to be unsuitable. I’d leave it at the drop of a dime. You do it all the time. I’ll see you at the sight of your bomb blast, an arrow through the apple on the tip of your top hat. Regrettable machetes embedded up in the wall and the wall-to-wall carpet carpel-tunnel call. Weathermen fed up forgetting confetti fall. It falls on all settings. The sentiments settle. Gentlemen gather together, get up and go laugh. Tell me if the water is tepid, I set it up in your kettle (forget it, crash). I know you love trouble, and life goes a little bit too fast.
Show me the ways of teleportation. I got a fascination with it even if it moves a little bit too slow. I had my hands on nothing and then I let go. Show me a sound salvation and I’ll take it but already I made mine up a long time ago. Then I let go.
Take away my memory, all off the report until I’m in the full moon all up on your front porch. Floridian beaches have no Georgian peaches, only orchards of oranges and organic diseases. See me in a panic and dismantle my thesis. I’ve been channeling the phantom tantrum of baby Jesus. I’m stranded with paraplegics in a conversation. I’m speechless. I got no telekinesis. No teleportation. I’ve been waiting on that technological innovation. Plug me up in the system and have a listen. I’ve been flippin switches, multiple glitches up in the circuitry bridges I’m tripping with fidgety digits. Sipping on that lithium battery, flatter me after the fact with an epitaph or meltdown. I’ll be singing up in heaven in a hotel lounge.
Show me the ways of teleportation. I got a fascination with it even if it moves a little bit too slow. I had my hands on nothing and then I let go. Show me a sound salvation and I’ll take it but already I made mine up a long time ago.
Track Name: No T.S. Eliot
I’ve been walking along a tightrope just a tad bit too tight. Tonight I’ma be off into the shadows until one day when the bright lights generously shine down and everything except the background will fade. I tip toe, trip, I don’t dance. Say god damn pretty please, would you let the man at the grand piano play? He’s been living in a bubble that that that’s been walking the line to any point in time that I’ve ever made. And in the room, the women come and go talking of Michelangelo. They talk too much (this is not it at all). Find me where the footsteps don’t ever make a sound and around time as it unwinds and finally frays. Every point in the past has got a date dot that’s about to get cropped out by the big picture before it’s about to be outdated. Out dating in a state of paralysis and you’re content with falling in love with inanimate objects, degenerate subsets under parasitic sunsets, and sexually driven fleshy plastic or a psychopathic babbling. A classic case of affection without a cause. You’ve got it all wrong. They lied to you and then they made you weak and told you what to do and what to think like it’s nothing more than that. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to act. And you’ll be gone soon. And in the room, the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. They talk too much.
Track Name: Wonderful Things feat. Brzowski
Swordplay: Alright. I talk a lot. I talk a lot. I talk a lot. People, they talk about the recession. Now they’re talking about retirement. I talk about who’s working and who’s breaking a sweat. I had my head full of wonderful things but they’re all gone now. To where, I don’t know. But I know they’ll be found. I'm sorry for always apologizing for things I did not do, events I could not control and things I did not say. Pride is a mother fucker and I've got a civilized mind, a pocket full of pennies nickels and dimes. I drink to mankind alone while someone a little less lucky than myself talks to God from a pay phone. It's okay. Ask him how much money I owe. He won’t know. He threw away my Medicaid application and then he kept on going. This is a medicated nation and I capitulate when I see my paycheck. Lose my concentration but I keep going. Because I am a machine. A machine has purpose. I am poetic motion in the ocean while an ice berg shoulder to shoulder with the suits and the hors-d’oeuvres, prostitutes with their slurs go "bourbon and whiskey never mattered this much to the South.” I interrupt when I open up my mouth. I got a family tree with dotted lines I can cut out with scissors. And if this is the land of the free beyond a reasonable doubt, I say we take missiles, fill em with nuclear waste, attach em to satellites and then shoot them at the sun or at these limousines that are rolling down these country roads. I've been running around for days in a place I do not know with friends that I just met on runaway trains you cannot catch. For all that, I've got nothing to show. We are off the rails, hands tied to the trestles, wrestling with the tracks. And I swore that I was never going back to that land with that captain with that castle with that princess there holding my map.
I had my head full...
Brzowski: I'm not sorry enough. I push against the sunrise. Chimney full of rotgut, punish self throughout first large percentage of the day. Year in and year out I learn to live with "the peddle, the thawing", and toothpicks prying open lidded eyes. The mornings hurt and my body screams from every sinew as I push it past limitations. Eventually the brain begins dissolution "hinted" expected and formally medicated. "This happens to the best of us" I'm reassured by those far from this place and keep the majority of abuse a secret to save face, check the grill for bugs before motivation to streetside. Sunglasses is a must, I talk shit and shovel it in bucketfuls against the tide. I stress for dimes and throwing copper like it's gonna hit the world market and if you see it fly I would advise you to try and dodge it. I've attempted to remove the angelic likeness from soapstone and marble. Reductive process never touted to be a strong suit. Manifested my last long-term megalith in a moving vehicle scripted in motion, now an attempt to control my surroundings. I've got Paxil to prove a percentage of that. No gods, No masters, only a procession of brats, Yankee bred, Illustrated my bi-daily yawn-fest. Talk quick with my soul mirrors shifting side-to-sly, Pale Rider equivalent of a fistful of plasticine dust. I bet I can pickpocket the picket line astride. Spent half my naturalized time allotted on this spun rock dubbed Pangaea. Cuz troglodyte customs abound, presently the stench of wine coolers. I was raised Protestant so I latently believe cancer is a Catholicized invention. I'm sorry occifer, I was just ripping phantasmagoric lines with the ghost of William S. Burroughs. I'll buy some vowels like "O" (oh) and "Y" (why) The Real American Next Top No Deal Live from the 1st World's bottom half billion. I've been migrained for a decade plus and it barely even bothers me, barley barely sedates me. Walking on the balls of my feet out of anxiety, walking on the balls of the fraudulent dogs roaming and picking over the droppings of evidence for homework, and overdue letters of resignation.
Track Name: Song for the Dead
Have another Birthday today. Radioactive birthday cake can be dangerous and as long as I’m alive I’ma be okay with this headline: “Straight A Worker Bee Academic Clown Type Figure Role Model Finally pulled the plug.” Come grab a gravity bong and a hotel bible, complimentary footprints on your way out that door. Shit eating grin on your face and your airplane is falling out of the ozone into the outskirts of remote outer space. Picture me in a life vest with the caption. I am a drowning accident just waiting to happen at my best in a nascent stage of death. Epitaph broadcasting, transistor radio trapped in my chest. So sing a song for the dead and do not, do not allow your self to malfunction. Maybe it’s all in your head. Would you beat back that bad bone fragment upon drum skin? No. I don’t have the time of day. I don’t even have an I.D. Probably got a cigarette, a phone bill, maybe a wallet, losing lottery tickets and pennies stuck in my pocket. The television at home is in tact. Clip off the antennas, but the limbs have been known to grow back. Turn on that bad news and try to relax. Kick off the shoes and go overreact to the same old scenario. Reality TV type Japanese Game Show. No reports of a Double Rainbow. Interrupted by the Tsunami. Tokyo. CNN. American men sitting in and thinking bombing. I’m carving a halo I made out of cardboard. I got a telescope that I made out of play-dough. I point it at the heavens. I’m notating in crayon. See, I am certainly no Galileo. Whoa. Naw. Another death sentence. Thank God I got an anti-clerical comeback. Show me the contract. I’m ready for warfare. A friend of the night time don’t have any health care. And at New Year’s, I resolved to be brave and I’ve been excited for 2012. I’m a do my best now to behave, remain in the shadows and carefully line up each one of my dominos in the snow. Adamantly add another cadaver to the equation and then clench fists. Abracadabra. You’re somebody else’s hallucination now. Who doesn’t exist? A 3D-image stretched like fabric. At your best, a visible pulsation. My make and model is a mostly ape-like throwback recreation. I’m an organism in decay. Defined by my personal taste and geographical location. Now, shout outs to the Appalachians. I’ll explain… I really like apples. And I’m down with moonshine. But I’m not a Christian. And I don’t hate China quite yet. Not that I’m not afraid of em. Remember I’m ready for warfare. Remember to be brave. All we want is that special laissez-faire type of bliss or someone to show us that we exist or someone to miss or someone pretty by the death bed with a last kiss or someone on your birthday. No, I don’t want no hologram. Even if it’s better than no friends, or better than no family… because I heard that there may be some bad news coming along up on the horizon. If memory serves, they’ll all be gone. Miles away! Say they won’t be back. Hope you have a nice day. Know it’ll be okay. And from time to time, time takes your loved ones away. So sing a song for the dead and do not do not allow yourself to malfunction. Maybe it’s all in your head and existence is a mighty fine human assumption. Sing a song for the dead, and do not do not allow your self to mal to malfunction.
Track Name: Waterproof Camera
When I was a child I found a Polaroid of an unholy ghost coasting on a magic carpet over Mary Magdalene’s baby trapped in a tar pit crawling his way out awful, limbs snapping in half like the saplings of apple trees, smacking bees back to see what they say. What more could I possibly say? I’ve learned a lot more in this lifetime than I can relay through thick cables stretched across the floor of an ocean. I’ve noticed nothing but feedback in that delay. Motionless, I take permanent vacation. I’m staying at rock bottom. I got a solid concentration of ultra magma like data flow ready for your translation, but I’m forever in the midst of attempting to transmit the last bits of undamaged information. Maybe I’m a madman with a muddy mind and I’ve been melting and I’m motorized by my [yerba] matés on Mondays and all the bad days that I happened to spend in a daze when a kitchen manager can manage to walk in to a walk-in and blaze. But actually, I’m in a hazmat and I’m haphazardly hacking my way back to happiness, hazardous material up in my veins. Radioactive rain on your parade and the campaign ends in agony. I’m an advocate of altered adverts that add dirt on to the capitalist tapestry. I flirt with tragedy in a belated alert message to the masses broadcasting crass syntax, and with a glass of gravity, it cracks into your hands over your head, melting plastic, snaps and then laughingly sways. I’m renegade and grenades, lost and loose lipped, full of serenades. I get my teeth chipped. Helicopter mouth propeller blades on my way down, on my way down, on my way down, on my way. My head must be some disposable camera with a flash that cannot be relied on in the dark. Please come close. I can only see things that are about three to five feet in front of me now and I can barely make out your outline. Time: a collage. Take a picture and scan it. Little dots connect but are hard to see. A little light blinking: an entire planet perhaps or another scratch on the lens. I’m tired of thinking. Fill me in. Fill me in. I spend time with time spinning on spindles of twine, lines swindling me of my winnings. Swimming next to a napping light gone dim in the sky, I got a slingshot pointed at grey clouds. I’m doing backstroke looking at em yelling Die! Die! Die! Before I pass out I pass pastels to Daltonians fixated on a pixilated black and white TV Nickelodeon broadcast. I pass slow to them. I’m on the road again, watching the galaxy at the exact moment in which it implodes again. A footnote in Existence always, I’m but a light bulb in its hallways. An AC Unit in boycott of the dog days on a window sill. I sit still and try to behave, gazing into weathered pages, melting tigers into butter like Murakami, but that’s not me. I don’t have a wrist watch or Tamagotchi. I don’t make money off of my writing; I make origami, paper airplanes and the beginnings of a makeshift bonfire. I’m sweating calmly and with ornaments on my skin. Send me away upon your flotation devices. All I got is this raft packed with a weaponized virus. No supply kit. I dream of aviation nightly. I might wind up in your flight path and crash into your astral kites but it’s unlikely like wing development. Try me. I’m signed into the mother synapse, half of me wired to the myelin and misaligned. I’m backfiring. Find me a little island with miles of my own asylum so I stay smiling on a fish hook. All I need now is a waterproof camera.
Track Name: Stop Lying to Us
Stop lying to us. We are no fools. We had recognized Super Man before he had removed his glasses. Do you really think we can swallow anything? This drunk bearded guy with Nike trainers is definitely not Santa Clause. The truth started propagating. We all know that Tony Michelli is a fake housekeeper. Do you really think we can swallow anything? In real life Tony Danza’s boxers are lying about on the floor. Please excuse the maniacal laugh. My man just said the Earth’s not flat. A rat-a-tat-tat. Hit the crash like a dummy on the wheel I bleed so funny I feel it’s unreal. Is this really happening or is it a daydream with a bit of pitter-patter perhaps? I’m hanging in a half suspension, the tension of a thread tied to balloons to relax. I’ve been running for years. I’ve been crawling for longer. Think I got enough fuel to burn a few more days. Running out of helium gas, it’s no laughing matter when your matter goes gray. There won’t be sunshine every day. It’s just the only way I’ll ever feel safe. Oh well, well I’ll never safe. Ok. I don’t want to startle any carbon-based forms in the place with the facts of our fabrication. Statistics are made up or sad or suffer bad habits of manipulation. I’m made up from duct tape, a little silly putty, I got battery acid and a bolt in the brain… Stop lying to us. We are no fools. We all know that Ronald McDonald is a fucking fake clown. Do you really think we can swallow anything? A guy eating burgers everyday would be twice as big as this man. The truth started propagating. No one will ever trust a white guy with a red afro haircut. Do you really think we can swallow anything? Ronald McFreakyDonald I’m not scared of you anymore. You best believe that the best emcee in the world’s had to force feed an ego a San Pellegrino or a cappuccino in her last favorite casino. As for me, always been a fan of risk. I really, really can’t resist it. If there’s something to the prophecy of Nostradamus, then I missed it. I insist that this apocalyptic event you think is about to happen is only gonna happen if you let it happen, so don’t let it happen, don’t let it happen. Tell me, can you count past two? I can count past seven. My calendar continues past the weekend. Nevertheless I’ve elected Monday my favorite day to sleep in cuz I am that a.m. crackle and hum, transistor in the back of the lung, my antenna broke off in momentous pain. At the same moment that it landed, it stung. And I’m trapped in the seat between the bus driver and the bums babbling… Stop lying to us. We are no fools. We all know that Mitch from Baywatch is a fake swimming instructor. Do you really think we can swallow anything? In real life, he’s not successful with women under sixty. The truth started propagating. Mitch, stop holding your breath. Let you belly live for the day. Do you really think we can swallow anything? Accept, accept, accept, accept being old is not a shame. I got a test tube and I got a shot glass. Now which one do you want to put the world in? I’m versed in scientific nonsense that’s so detrimentally certain. I got the perfect version of the true story and the worst environment that I could ever tell it in. They got six packs of Bibles at 7-11; I like the packaging that they sell em in. I’m gambling on being Gullible as I am Dreamless in a deep sleep. Listen to the beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep of your alarm clock. Well, I’ve been building a super computer from the common household object I’ve found. Down in a bomb shelter with investors that didn’t ever want to be underground. Put us in a Western, put us in a Wal-Mart. I’ll try to be a better consumer. It’s always been up for grabs now but I’m the market for a better future.
Track Name: 64 Bit Remix
I'll smoke another cigarette and bang my head on the wall to see how bloody it gets, but the rhythm it's like a call to my city. I'll smoke another cigarette and bang my head on the wall to see how bloody it gets, but the rhythm it's like a call. Fuck it. You 16-bit, I'm 64-bit. So when you done giving me the picture I'm the one still seeing shit, spiraling out in the pixel light and feelin' it. Who cut the circuit feeding it? Never cared about my apathy till you believed in it. I'm half past serenity. The last blast was on my path to divinity. Went to Sin City with the Sims and sent back that ketamine. The devil tried to sell us methamphetamines and I almost forgot my Dramamine for the drive home a head of me. Fuck it. You 16-bit, I'm 64-bit and I already passed you four times on this 20 year orbit. Wowing out with my boys now 'cos its important. Wow, Owls! For sure then and shouts outs to the house that holds my poorest fortune. It's like, I'm six years old and tryin to torch the porch swing, choppin down cherry trees with an ax as fast as the door swing. I'm a just go out back and listen to the whores sing, you wouldn't get it though, it's a 24 thing. The name's Jack Bauer. I get along with President Palmer and black power. I been up for 24 hours, dipped out on the nuclear shower. Now, who got my daughter Kim Bauer? I want to talk to her, motherfucker. We family. Fuck it. You 16 bit. I'm 64-bit. The desert's seen a ghost as Mason goes to the cock pit. Suicide dive into the rocks then. The apocalypse pops in and helicopters watch I drop make city blocks bend. Bombs pop in a lopsided horizon. Cyanide inside of my mouth incase of surprises. 64 bit and basically four times more clarity. Plug me into your system and prepare yourself for disparity. I'll smoke another cigarette and bang my head on the wall to see how bloody it gets, but the rhythm it's like a call to my city. I'll smoke another cigarette and bang my head on the wall to see how bloody it gets, but the rhythm it's like a call.