Blockhead - Maintenance lyrics

[Verse 1:] Well, any a**hole with a book of matches can light a fire fresh; Make that s**er burn for days, I'll be impressed Surfing to bash the coach of bigot procreation baked in fanciful Then scurry up the gra** to roll his marbles off the anthill I know girth and good nature but recognize absentee ballots And sappy ballads couldn't fill the void (No they can't) It's James and the Giant Tugboat Complex and he's annoyed (No one's asking you to build an ark brother) Yeah, it's fashion I'll find my own bullies to shake a finger at Then realign mine eyes in divine justice Plus this uncontrollable laugh When those Amber Waves of Grain finally crash Brimstone, cloned with legs and dim poems, 10 little Zen crafts Things cooperate like paper doll participant litigants Picket well around a burner style clinic Acid for the basics, Ph-imbalance to burn the malice martyrs faceless Then fabricate day trips I wanna be the halo that jumps off the brain Of the genius who decided some pictures deserve frames (God and I are on first name basis) Yeah I call him "God", he calls me "Jesus" When I lost my religion, he fell to pieces Blame. Dragon. Up hell's creek interrupting a devil pageant Starfighter settle into madness I keep my ghoul spirit concealed Until The Warriors return to the Coney Isle Wonder Wheel [Hook:] My mama told me there'd be days like this, days like this, days like this Days like this... (Yes she did) [Verse 2:] (Okay) Tell me who you chill with, and I'll tell you who you are I walk a mile with a leash attached to your freak seminar It's a modern sensation on the boulevards of maintenance To sweep your broken hopes under the rug then hug the playpen It's revolution pushing through the loose pins Of the straight-jacketed maverick cla**ed in a bunk category They had him parallel with a tattered glory division Aka them who drink dreams out a thermos with a whiskey after-burn It's like, 9 o'clock wake (I'm up), spit obscenities My girl ties on my cape, smoke a bone, then work my deviltry The clear day's laced with a cla**ic mother nature thunder chaser set That got my paper crane's wings wet (oh no) Voyeurist amendments lacked expansive coverage in the syllabus I dance for chuckles while you man the keyhole grilling post (that's fine) I done my chores according to God's schedule With coffee holding the wheel and nicotine working the pedals Metal-edged cadence that tends to repel the bevel Kettle screeching out the operetta (operetta) I live to autograph the iron curtain with dove's backfeather pens spurting magma Curséd television earns the burdens of my Cleopatra Minor, (M-M-Major). Disperse slap on the wrist For the tenants lacking arms to harbor the rarity of thick friendship Sunk with a "yes sir" chained to fatigued ankle leagues beneath the angle I'mma call home 'til the Rock meets the angels