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lyrics

listen to to sound of the wind all up in the steeple
of the derelict temple being converted for people
putting gods on the street where they oughta be pulling 50 a day
or double if they can come up with something to say
or a sign with a funny reason for needing the money
appeasing jesus is easier when he’s drunken and grubby
i’m bleeding litres of my sunny disposition and needing stitches
i’m watching serenity get eroded by twitches
and pitching all over this rapidly diminishing habitat
bitching isn’t a habit at all it’s taught in the tabernacle
and practically canon i’m wishing i could be having a ball,
but it’s out of my hands and i don’t know who makes the call

and there’s a killer in the corner with a cardioid condenser
tryin’a blur and obfuscate the message to avoid the censor
but the filler isn’t mortar and the bricks are gonna topple
and the people in the court are gonna think that shit is awful

there’s prisoner in the tower with a ticking geiger counter
trying to get the jailer to agree to pay him by the hour
but the power’s fluctuating 'cause the tallest trees are falling
and the people loving freedom start to hear the prison calling

there’s a rally in the centre to demand the end of winter
and they’re selling raffle tickets brother you could be a winner
but the odds are getting thinner as we filling up the barrel
and the gods are getting baffled as the people going feral

i’ll try to care,
but the beat done switched and i climb the stairs
to the parapet, fetch the flag and play capture
y’all sit it out and count the fake raptures
that sure hit the spot, the warm fuzzies
bubble up but nothing can stop the born monsters
buddy cops can buzz the known mobsters
but this dizzy height resider’s clear 'cause he’s
the muddy sky lover with the mental immunity
to political trickiness, heir apparent and soon to be
ruling over the season with elemental effectiveness
and intuiting treason with elementary methods
it’s that simple, don’t be telling me different
and don’t be selling me shit as if i don’t know my own business
how do you presume to be cold calling the king?
the phones aint down yet, but i’m’a let it ring

credits

from Rhyme Circus Winter Special EP, released March 24, 2014
Music by Grant Livesay

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Marcus Carab Toronto, Ontario

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