Okay, so, so, so, so, so, so – NOW. (A tip: when you can’t for the life of you think of anything to write, you just sit back and let the music do it for you.)
Little ol’ drum beat ticking to the time. Guitar grinding to a slipping, dripping line. POSDNOUS. Crack babies and jerk mothers fiending for a hit in verbal punches – it’s a hook! Say no go. Say no go. And you feel your hips shaking a little bit, and that’s okay. Fidgety? You’re getting it, that’s right. Tongue rubbing against your gums, stretching your lips wide. Throw on some wooden rollerskates and do loops of the boardwalk.
My mama is a cleaner and she works ’til her feet go bust and the veins go greenish purple in a way I can’t describe any better. And my mama is submissive in an aggressive kind of way, and she always knows best. My mama gave birth to a boy born beaten with a cheek for being clever. My mama sees a gypsy in her son and I know that makes her sad. But my mama couldn’t help it she did what she could, and she did it well. And the red moon rising saw it all coming.
My papa is a worker and his hands tell you that. They’re rough and tough with a grip like lightning when it wraps around your heart and zap! It stops. So we don’t shake hands too much. And his face is tired and I look in the mirror and I ain’t never seen the resemblance people are always talkin’ about but I feel my face aging and I’m worried, man, really worried. The nights go quiet with the questions of days waiting their turns. AND YOU JUST YELL: “NEXT PLEASE.”
OW OW OW.
I just want to walk behind the rushing crowds playing this riff faster and faster and faster ’til they start running and I’ll start sprinting, screaming. SAY NO GO.
[Buy 3 Feet High And Rising.]