Personal Journalist

Song Personal Journalist
Artist Sage Francis
Album Personal Journals

Lyrics

作曲 : Francis
Sage Francis
Personal Journalist 1968-2001
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
Because they're still debating over what "rhyme skill" is.
Got Sick of
Waiting...for time killers to get over their murder raps.
Then he sold his own shirt off his back
For cheap exposure.
He'd seek for closure but stayed open minded.
Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra-violence.
Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
A bleeding soldier knows the science.
He does the math quick and writes
Without having to think twice.
Without asking for advice.
Letting the scalps peel.
Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
His death mask conceals his face paint.
It feels like a safe place, but it ain't.
Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don't.
He's not a real saint.
Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
And that's not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled to crack open to extract his blood cells from.
When he comes back from hell again,
You'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
Sage Francis
Anti-socialite.
Secret Admirer.
Student Loaner.
Continental
Drifter. Professional
Bootlegger.
Spin Doctor.
Self Referentialist.
Road Runner.
Personal Journalist.
Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
Heard they're concerned with making the
Earth shift.
These kid games are silly.
When all art is signed anonymous,
He'll turn that
Big Bang Theory into a
Small Pop
Hypothesis.
Sage Francis.
Death Merchant. 1968-2001
Devoted son...father to none...
Husband to something soulless and didn't spend his life with who he loved.
The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove. "His time is up!"
He's still the type poised to make a come back.
Kill the white noise until the sun's black.
Moonwalk around
New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
The California
Dream sequences end quick.
Couldn't find middle ground in little towns on some
Midwest trip.
He stood for something...but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
In an avant garden of
Eden. "Get off the cross!"
Of course we need the wood to burn a
Godless heathen.
Catch him red handed...only if his palms are bleeding.
Sage Francis
Non-Prophet.
Artificially
Intelligent.
Avant Guardian
Angel Dust
Mite. 1968-2001
It's been a pleasure.
It's been a pleasure
But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face.

Pinyin

zuò qǔ : Francis
Sage Francis
Personal Journalist 19682001
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
Because they' re still debating over what " rhyme skill" is.
Got Sick of
Waiting... for time killers to get over their murder raps.
Then he sold his own shirt off his back
For cheap exposure.
He' d seek for closure but stayed open minded.
Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultraviolence.
Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
A bleeding soldier knows the science.
He does the math quick and writes
Without having to think twice.
Without asking for advice.
Letting the scalps peel.
Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
His death mask conceals his face paint.
It feels like a safe place, but it ain' t.
Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don' t.
He' s not a real saint.
Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
And that' s not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled to crack open to extract his blood cells from.
When he comes back from hell again,
You' ll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
Sage Francis
Antisocialite.
Secret Admirer.
Student Loaner.
Continental
Drifter. Professional
Bootlegger.
Spin Doctor.
Self Referentialist.
Road Runner.
Personal Journalist.
Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
Heard they' re concerned with making the
Earth shift.
These kid games are silly.
When all art is signed anonymous,
He' ll turn that
Big Bang Theory into a
Small Pop
Hypothesis.
Sage Francis.
Death Merchant. 19682001
Devoted son... father to none...
Husband to something soulless and didn' t spend his life with who he loved.
The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove. " His time is up!"
He' s still the type poised to make a come back.
Kill the white noise until the sun' s black.
Moonwalk around
New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
The California
Dream sequences end quick.
Couldn' t find middle ground in little towns on some
Midwest trip.
He stood for something... but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
In an avant garden of
Eden. " Get off the cross!"
Of course we need the wood to burn a
Godless heathen.
Catch him red handed... only if his palms are bleeding.
Sage Francis
NonProphet.
Artificially
Intelligent.
Avant Guardian
Angel Dust
Mite. 19682001
It' s been a pleasure.
It' s been a pleasure
But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face.