| Somewhere between motivated and cold | |
| You on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you | |
| Basing guess upon guess, there, where | |
| Somewhere between motivated and cold | |
| Believing your good friends down to the bile in their beauty marks | |
| They who found you counting back toward yourself | |
| So haven't dreamt and heavily armed | |
| Yet another blues thief told in however and one day | |
| And every Monday things begin with indiscriminate street noise | |
| More vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels | |
| Of work in their blood and clock in their wake up | |
| Early shaving damp, breakfast skulls with fresh lady's leg razor | |
| So that the one day the moon might hold a half million nice size | |
| Hoods easy and plenty fast restaurants | |
| By cum and by egg | |
| And laid low into creature | |
| Then cast out in the one cold of all names | |
| This song is about disavowed sperm | |
| And the mining of human concern | |
| Many cells split, many men died in 1998 | |
| The year of my strong, fair rap collection | |
| There are foot prints embraced far out on the frozen lake face | |
| Depressed and kept from quite some cold ago | |
| And they look brave, dangerous, man made | |
| The sort of mark one can make on the world | |
| You borrowed the camera from why | |
| And set it up over by the printer and horse head | |
| Obsessed with your pressing record | |
| To indulge in the shadows of both here and immortal | |
| Is it god to name things from thin air? | |
| To have the wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your wallet | |
| To have 100 CC's liquid luck supplement | |
| Dug into your blood by needle point and distant star | |
| Are you busy losing yourself? | |
| In the quiet cell of abandoned old Oakland | |
| Pants undone, stole eye starting to water | |
| Nailing a sign that speaks fear to a bank at the man made lake | |
| You cop, you | |
| Will you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sun | |
| Or stay indoors taking the pill to your face? | |
| Striking that lightning on nothing | |
| Attempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at home | |
| In a smock killing single cell sheep for straight weeks | |
| 'Til you give it all up for Photoshop and using your teeth | |
| There in a box with your things, stabbed air holes | |
| And one wing or white lung when your well will you stay | |
| Since there is a certain modern earth pain | |
| Only fit for enduring, which one does endure? | |
| Like returning a foster child twice or going | |
| The distance on songs for somebody else's compilation | |
| No one's out there scared you'd set your eyes off | |
| All night on the ceiling in the dark think of a song or maybe breasts | |
| I thought I told you, this is not new | |
| Skinned by the speed of my one life | |
| You have the desperate fair to your eyes | |
| The look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army man | |
| Almost too attuned to the spoils of loved | |
| Wishing he'd been born some sort of succulent or larvae | |
| But you're too soft for all that | |
| You like your blood kept in the movies | |
| And your head in a jar or a vase in a van on tour | |
| Your guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatbox | |
| Heart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or two | |
| Here you are a bag of milk to do tricks | |
| And not as a function of pennies and how you've dreamt | |
| Nosdam's skull been predatored given a split at the hairline | |
| And hinged with a lid and in it placed | |
| The single hard marble of art and it is there it is kept |
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