| Song | Castles f. Aesop Rock & Sadistik |
| Artist | Cunninlynguists |
| Album | Strange Journey Volume Three |
| Sadistik: | |
| He said, 'Fuck sobriety, death to the worker bees' | |
| Thirteen circles I've stepped for eternity | |
| Burning purple, stressed on a murder spree | |
| It's self-inflicted, don't get it twisted | |
| These knives in my back now, Elliott Smith (yeah) | |
| Rides in the background, melodies fit (yeah) | |
| Mixed with The Misfits, fixes the hurt | |
| When the lips that I kiss with press to the dirt | |
| French-kiss vixens, distant and cursed | |
| Burned bridges occurred from scriptin' my words | |
| Word, so I'll chisel a verse | |
| On these lie-filled halls that I've lived in and searched | |
| I'm still lost in a head of catacombs | |
| Cause I build walls like I'm Edgar Allan Poe | |
| I've killed off every damsel that I know | |
| For castles that I keep, castles that I know | |
| Deacon: | |
| I'm having spirits in the dark | |
| Laying under moonlight | |
| Laughing with a stranger like I’ve saved her from her doomed life | |
| Pop a couple percs | |
| A perk of anonymity | |
| Trapped within a curse that I created with my energy | |
| A path that I rehearse | |
| A cycle on repeat | |
| Life is like a lion and i’m dying at it’s feet | |
| I roll another a sweet | |
| Check my muted Treo | |
| I’ve seemed to miss the plot | |
| too busy caught up in the b-roll | |
| My eye up to the key-hole | |
| Scared to turn the knob | |
| and go out on my own | |
| Instead I blend in with the mob | |
| My memory bank the only thing I tend to rob | |
| and every time I’m thrown the lob i’m out of Dodge | |
| It’s hard | |
| On the blvd | |
| and other cliches | |
| The type of bullshit that I’m feeding self these days | |
| Corrosion on my relays | |
| One day my mirror shows | |
| an Emp in new clothes | |
| exposed | |
| Aesop Rock: | |
| I mow a dead lawn | |
| Aim for the alpha | |
| Ten claws deck the halls of Valhalla | |
| Not a man or receptacle for crestfallen matter | |
| Never tempered or pressed into patterns | |
| But just won’t die | |
| Instead of palpitation from the plasma | |
| Pumping disenchanting anecdotes | |
| And antiquated data at 'em | |
| I get these headaches that climb down into my stomach | |
| Then off in my extremities and out into the public | |
| In a flood of shadow puppetry | |
| Something in the air | |
| Got a tiny pull of energy becoming self- aware | |
| Its recognizing family in alpha numeric characters | |
| Scenery and deities with unassuming avatars | |
| Close encounters exacerbate his condition | |
| From placid to a bastion of classic misdirection | |
| Tune into the Casio adventures | |
| When the rest of me can barely form a God damn sentence! |
| Sadistik: | |
| He said, ' Fuck sobriety, death to the worker bees' | |
| Thirteen circles I' ve stepped for eternity | |
| Burning purple, stressed on a murder spree | |
| It' s selfinflicted, don' t get it twisted | |
| These knives in my back now, Elliott Smith yeah | |
| Rides in the background, melodies fit yeah | |
| Mixed with The Misfits, fixes the hurt | |
| When the lips that I kiss with press to the dirt | |
| Frenchkiss vixens, distant and cursed | |
| Burned bridges occurred from scriptin' my words | |
| Word, so I' ll chisel a verse | |
| On these liefilled halls that I' ve lived in and searched | |
| I' m still lost in a head of catacombs | |
| Cause I build walls like I' m Edgar Allan Poe | |
| I' ve killed off every damsel that I know | |
| For castles that I keep, castles that I know | |
| Deacon: | |
| I' m having spirits in the dark | |
| Laying under moonlight | |
| Laughing with a stranger like I' ve saved her from her doomed life | |
| Pop a couple percs | |
| A perk of anonymity | |
| Trapped within a curse that I created with my energy | |
| A path that I rehearse | |
| A cycle on repeat | |
| Life is like a lion and i' m dying at it' s feet | |
| I roll another a sweet | |
| Check my muted Treo | |
| I' ve seemed to miss the plot | |
| too busy caught up in the broll | |
| My eye up to the keyhole | |
| Scared to turn the knob | |
| and go out on my own | |
| Instead I blend in with the mob | |
| My memory bank the only thing I tend to rob | |
| and every time I' m thrown the lob i' m out of Dodge | |
| It' s hard | |
| On the blvd | |
| and other cliches | |
| The type of bullshit that I' m feeding self these days | |
| Corrosion on my relays | |
| One day my mirror shows | |
| an Emp in new clothes | |
| exposed | |
| Aesop Rock: | |
| I mow a dead lawn | |
| Aim for the alpha | |
| Ten claws deck the halls of Valhalla | |
| Not a man or receptacle for crestfallen matter | |
| Never tempered or pressed into patterns | |
| But just won' t die | |
| Instead of palpitation from the plasma | |
| Pumping disenchanting anecdotes | |
| And antiquated data at ' em | |
| I get these headaches that climb down into my stomach | |
| Then off in my extremities and out into the public | |
| In a flood of shadow puppetry | |
| Something in the air | |
| Got a tiny pull of energy becoming self aware | |
| Its recognizing family in alpha numeric characters | |
| Scenery and deities with unassuming avatars | |
| Close encounters exacerbate his condition | |
| From placid to a bastion of classic misdirection | |
| Tune into the Casio adventures | |
| When the rest of me can barely form a God damn sentence! |