I do wrong, strictly speaking, just for myself, because it
Makes me feel like a real man to hold hegemony over my business, and I
I refuse to be abused by the milieu of wistful decay
Besides I'm used to all of my scruples deserting me
Like they've done today
The lady from the block hunched over on the stoop
With her withered old titty out,
Sayin' I've been rolled so many times, it's just
Feeding the pigeons
Now her grandson swings a little rabbit by the leg
While his mother's playing two wooden flutes
I want to repo some fugitive air
To escape this street's vagary aesthetic
Has anybody here seen my old friend blob?
Oh, has anybody seen where he's gone?
What he thinks I owe him is his former life
But how can I unmake someone else's mistakes?
I guess I was his anti-hero
The bitter word on his lips
I hope I never feel a terror like
When you've discovered your autonomy had flipped
I feel like I possess only the bad aspects
Of invisibility, but none of the good ones
Are we walking mausoleums of scented rotting flesh?
Mother always liked you best
Liked your teeth upon her breast
Paint him with the oils from the eyes of street cats
Through some shitty witchcraft
And apply it to their brows and genitalia
I had no idea how deeply I wounded you
But I don't need no forgiveness
And no level of contrition will ever do
at the 3rd, 5th, and 7th frets, but it sounds great if you
acoustic guitar track, and that's what he's playing. Focus
on the descending root notes on the A string like he does.