Themselves - Cross-section of Wreckage lyrics

We don't believe in weak spot For every cheap shot you got We hold a mirror to your blind spot Your throat holds artificial words Spewing garbage lines out to the headliners herds A puppet to your own disappointment Your big egoed mouth is a fly in the ointment This ain't no rap and all name All act and no pain Drag around our honesty Like a ball and a chain Take a bullet for these two no question You flake on labelmates at a managers suggestion Now who's the better man? Who's got the better plan? Friends for life or fleeting fame leaving you with less than? Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope In the blood Cold in the drug Tow of show And no Thing But owe One wing and stole Got no answer but you got a perfect shrug To Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope In the blood Cold in the drug Tow of show And no Thing But owe One wing and stole Like coffee goes coal in the give of your guts Dues polluting how you dust to dust and skull touch Diesel in the weight of your words Credo in the wish that you serve Eye teeth to the curb of age Blues thief in a serge of days Of sun over flesh And Cease over breath Spitting light from a cracked rock Supporting life with your back stock Watched wall clock never turns Gotta push big and little hands to shape what you earn The law of diminishing returns Is all d**h and taxes It's gonna happen Till that day we stay bu*ton pushing and rapping All of these poems take place in the space between various bills On the edge of a bed or the wiles of a fool hero's cloud black and clear head Best digested in a pair of 100 dollar headphones Or in a dive bar on the back of a microphone You can't go eye for an eye Alone on yourself For too long you loose sight Begin to see yourself as d**h On the mic Low level life Poor chooser of fights Disbeliever of hype All raw eye and no sight Alone in the light of your d**h on the mic Or the sword of poor choice in life Disbelief and diffuse hypes This is yet another record about we and our littling Something sensitive and naked out of song that we're whittling Bigger than the middle man up You is or you isn't A thing of fragile or a cross section of wreckage To which our living clings