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lyrics

I was born and aborted
then mourned more than most morbid dying folk
in morgues eating morphine
-or- I'm poor
and I'm foreign telling corp men
give me their rations
or a mass of
food, whatever their packin'
or I'll shoot 'em in their back
then they'll shoot back to react
then on the news it'll say
"SOLDIERS MURDER IN IRAQ"
Oh, political rap? Cinical facts act
as boredom to the average ass drinking absinth
or tripping off acid
tripping on grass that
was mowed the other day, you stupid dumb asses
Acting like shrooms don't stimulate synapses
it's not God talking to you, it's just the caps or the capsules

..caps or the capsules

Let's take money from the dead homeless
For the sake of irony in the moment
Let's
Boo the best runner winning a trophy
cause we're jealous Usain Bolt used to be poorer than us
Winners are menaces
Sinners are friends and this
is not a prison it's a premises
and pegasus is fake like breasts the insecure manifest
so I guess fantasy isn't reserved for the mess of penniless

Rest for any miss
Cry for every scab
Mad for any hit
but never hitting back
that's the montra of a coward
I don't say the pledge cause I don't pray to power
or for it, porage and oranges in brown bags
living in a gutter, not imprisoned by a bank

I'm homeless, fucker I'm a cobra
I scare suited dudes to remind them I'm important
What if I'm dopin, and what if I'm hopin'
you give me 5 grand so I can buy more of it
you'll give it any way
for that chick your dating
she likes guys with big hearts,
the charity is foreplay than

I want a feral cat to play jazz in an alley
with a sax and packs of stoges in a valley
of the shadow of death, on top of the last breath
of someone who just got jumped
for his shoes and not his paycheck
it's all play money anyway

I steal from the rich and afraid
and the kings who enabled me
who raped me with an envious vacancy
that caused this echoing want that
would push most to an hourly clock-in
But me? I'ma kill my brother for his shoes
and when they ask me why
I'll say 'To be like you'

Then I'll tell the radio to go fuck off
Slash the tires of my papa's car
Throw a bat through my TV set
Slap a cop while he's writing me a ticket

We should be taught
that man made law
fickle and broad
to play God in the lines they forgot

Something modern
Something modern
Something modern
Something modern
Something modern

credits

from To Pearl Whitney, From Howland Grouse In Loathing, released September 6, 2012
Written/Produced/Performed by Kai Straw

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