I hate how my journal is empty, so I will put something here. Here are the lyrics to an awesome song by Sage Francis.
GUNZ YO!
gunz yo! i keep one in my pillow case.
it keeps me safe when i sleep, still i keep awake.
what if my dream girl pays a midnight visit?
i see the world through the scope, but i gain no insight with it.
when i get introspective i put the safety on
and make these songs with the biscuit sitting in my shaky palms.
i'm a man now. a real man.
not the one who went to two colleges groveling over meal plans.
i'm staring at the ceiling fan...all wide-eyed.
amazed by the ways the blades break the silence.
i used to be afraid to fire it. the sound was startling
but now i'm starting to hate the quite moments.
it might remind you of a mic by the way i hold it.
straight to the grill like a homophobic rapper
unaware of the graphic nature of phallic symbols.
tragically ironic, sucking off each other's gats and pistols.
i've got more back issues than guns n' ammo...
'cause my uzi weighs a ton and i never let go of the handle.
hanging onto mommy's pant leg...double fisted.
knee deep in shells, kicking ballistics.
this dick is a detachable penis.
an extension of my manhood, positioned like a fetus.
an intravenous hook up feeds bullets to my magazine.
nevermind the bullocks, my pistol is a sex machine!
i've got another gun. i keep it in my briefcase.
it keeps me safe at my work place.
cubicle gangster who's in need of his personal space.
angster of love who's unable to look girls in their face.
because i know that only stupid people increase the birth rates.
i'm just about dumb enough to hold up a sperm bank.
make my demands and then facilitate fur trades.
empty the bird cage and release the mermaids. huh.
i've got a water gun. i keep it in my mouth.
it keeps me safe from the things i like to speak about.
but words are leaking out. and all these smiles that i crack
are like a dam on the verge of collapse.
there ain't no turning back. in fact, i can't hold down my fluids.
i can't retract statements without water displacement.
flooded the basement, then sought refuge.
removed my water proof vest and then i kicked off my wet shoes.
made it to dry land, pistol in hand.
fist fulls of ammo, riding on a camel through the desert sand.
these lucid dreams are a lot like computer screens
where people have pretentious conversations, but i shoot the breeze.
i blow a hole straight through their long-winded theories.
i hold my own and make songs for them to sing with me.
it's the same type of heat that millie used, to break the ice with
santa clause when she made him sing the christmas blues.
capitalists strung her up for killing him.
every manufactured holiday they sacrifice another victim.
before war time depression sets in, i get to steppin'...
and shoe shine my weapon.
i'm hemorrhoid! i'm the leader!
you're dead like de la. i hold my crotch like a 9mm.
gunz yo!
GUNZ YO!
gunz yo! i keep one in my pillow case.
it keeps me safe when i sleep, still i keep awake.
what if my dream girl pays a midnight visit?
i see the world through the scope, but i gain no insight with it.
when i get introspective i put the safety on
and make these songs with the biscuit sitting in my shaky palms.
i'm a man now. a real man.
not the one who went to two colleges groveling over meal plans.
i'm staring at the ceiling fan...all wide-eyed.
amazed by the ways the blades break the silence.
i used to be afraid to fire it. the sound was startling
but now i'm starting to hate the quite moments.
it might remind you of a mic by the way i hold it.
straight to the grill like a homophobic rapper
unaware of the graphic nature of phallic symbols.
tragically ironic, sucking off each other's gats and pistols.
i've got more back issues than guns n' ammo...
'cause my uzi weighs a ton and i never let go of the handle.
hanging onto mommy's pant leg...double fisted.
knee deep in shells, kicking ballistics.
this dick is a detachable penis.
an extension of my manhood, positioned like a fetus.
an intravenous hook up feeds bullets to my magazine.
nevermind the bullocks, my pistol is a sex machine!
i've got another gun. i keep it in my briefcase.
it keeps me safe at my work place.
cubicle gangster who's in need of his personal space.
angster of love who's unable to look girls in their face.
because i know that only stupid people increase the birth rates.
i'm just about dumb enough to hold up a sperm bank.
make my demands and then facilitate fur trades.
empty the bird cage and release the mermaids. huh.
i've got a water gun. i keep it in my mouth.
it keeps me safe from the things i like to speak about.
but words are leaking out. and all these smiles that i crack
are like a dam on the verge of collapse.
there ain't no turning back. in fact, i can't hold down my fluids.
i can't retract statements without water displacement.
flooded the basement, then sought refuge.
removed my water proof vest and then i kicked off my wet shoes.
made it to dry land, pistol in hand.
fist fulls of ammo, riding on a camel through the desert sand.
these lucid dreams are a lot like computer screens
where people have pretentious conversations, but i shoot the breeze.
i blow a hole straight through their long-winded theories.
i hold my own and make songs for them to sing with me.
it's the same type of heat that millie used, to break the ice with
santa clause when she made him sing the christmas blues.
capitalists strung her up for killing him.
every manufactured holiday they sacrifice another victim.
before war time depression sets in, i get to steppin'...
and shoe shine my weapon.
i'm hemorrhoid! i'm the leader!
you're dead like de la. i hold my crotch like a 9mm.
gunz yo!
fatality:
Awesome, indeed