☆ 9.+Cycles

[Aesop Rock]

Shit… Vanessa, what time is it? aw, fuck … I’m late again.

Zoom in to the fuming of an aggravated breed
Via the study of post-adolescent agitated seeds.
Half the patients wasted self prior to commencement,
So I focus on the urban Oxygen samples, the half that made it breathe.
This old Pompeii impression sways infection in 12 steps or less
And cretins swiftly tippy-toe on hard to swallow barter concepts.
The give-it/get-it never let itself past wrought iron stubbornness.
Martyrs talk funny causes into a harvesting Spartacus and so on…
I throw long Hail Mary bombs
Toward cookie-cutter Mother Nature’s bedazzled synthetic fabrics.
Life treats the peasants like
They tried to fuck his woman while he slept inside,
While they’re merely chasing perfectionist emblems.
When the clock strikes Nine
I’ll be waking with the best of the routine caffeine team players
For the cycle of it.
Under a dusted angel harp-string, Big Brother is watching
My odometer like buzzard to fallen elk, hawkin’ stealth.
We got babies, rubber stamps, and briefcase parts.
We on some door-to-door now,
Order ten dollars or more we’ll shove it down your throat for free.
I sacrifice my inborn tendencies for copper pennies
From one commander ‘gimme that’ so he can retain baby fat.
Mega biter snake bedlam,
Holocaust freak heckle shiesty brain headroom shake planet.
Make a move, pause, make a move, break cannon.
Bend barrel 180 u-turn, squeeze, end it.
It’s on like it’s never been,
It’s bleeding well,
It’s bigger than a breadbox,
It corrodes my leaky finance.
I take my seat atop the Brooklyn Bridge
With a Coke and a bag of chips
To watch a thousand lemmings plummet
Just because the first one slipped.
Sometimes I laugh at victory, kissing these little question marks.
I tend to underestimate my average.
Just another bastard savage.
Someday you’ll all eat out of my cold hand
Cuz every dog has its day
At which point, I’ll pull it away.

We the American working population
Hate the fact that eight hours a day
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn’t us
And we may not hate our jobs,
But we hate jobs in general
That don’t have to do with fighting our own causes.
We the American working population
Hate the nine-to-five day-in/day-out
When we’d rather be supporting ourselves
By being paid to perfect the pasttimes
That we have harbored based solely on the fact
That it makes us smile if it sounds dope…

It’s the Year of the Silkworm.
Everything I built burned yesterday.
Let’s display the purpose that these stilts serve.
Elevate the spreading of the silk germ.
Trying to weave a web but all I believe in is dead.
Nah brother, it’s the Year of the Jackal.
Saddle up on high horse.
My torch forced Polaris embarrassed.
Shackle up the hassle by the doom and legend marriage.
I bought some new sneakers,
I just hope my legacy matches.
It’s the Year of the Landshark.
Dry as sand–parched–damn, get these men some water.
They’re out there being slaughtered
In meaningless wars so you don’t have to bother
And can sit and soak the idiot box, trying to fuck their daughters.
Man, it’s the Year of the Orphan.
Seated adjacent to the fireflies circling the torches on your porches.
Trying to guard the fortress of a king they’ve never seen or met
But all are trained to murder at the first sign of a threat.
Maybe it’s the Year of the Water Bug.
Cockroach. Utter thug specimen.
Fury spawned from dreaming of your next of kin.
I’m still dealing with this mess I’m in.
I’ve been the object of your ridicule.
You’ve been a bitch lieutenant.
God, it’s the Year of the Underpaid Employee
Spitting forty plus a week
And trying to rape earth in my off time.
You bored dizzy, I can’t keep myself busy enough
So you can run, run, run,
And I’ma let you think you won.
EVERYBODY!

We the American working population
Hate the fact that eight hours a day
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn’t us
And we may not hate our jobs,
But we hate jobs in general
That don’t have to do with fighting our own causes.
We the American working population
Hate the nine to five day-in/day-out
But we’d rather be supporting ourselves
By being paid to perfect the pasttimes
That we have harbored based solely on the fact
That it makes us smile if it sounds dope.

OUTRO
Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen.
Pour myself a cup of ambition.
And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess,
And if I never make it home today, God bless.
Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen.
Pour myself a cup of ambition.
And yawn and stretch, my life is a mess,
And if I never make it home today, God bless.