Wringing up my hands
Flash an evil grin
Twenty years have passed
And now it’s time to cash it in
With my handy fifty grand
And an arsenal of flops
I can ride this fuckin zombie pony
Straight up to the top
You’re no prophet
You are profit
The suites’ defrosted you again
Take your money
Buy some boredom
Or go to London with your friends
Again
And I want you to see us
"Concerning my last email,
kindly fuck off.
I didn't become a freelance videographer
to listen to you piss and moan.
I'm the one with the camera so it's my job
to settle the shot.
I will be withholding work on this project
until you allow me more creative control
and furthermore, I will be involving lawyers
to negotiate a contract for content ownership."
Cause I’m a trophy
I’m a toy
I’m an ordinary boy
Scraping paper made of sand
On my teeth and in my glands
I eat when I wanna eat
And I sleep when I wanna die
I am pointing both my middle fingers
Upwards towards the sky
But the sky it was too blue
And the sun it was too bright
And the day it was too cold
It was like, fucking, 40 degrees
So I kicked my kicking rock
Far into my neighbors land
And started whilstin’ a tune
Sing, “I’m Waiting for my Man”
It’s true
credits
Zachary Wilson (Composer, Lyrics, Guitar, Vocals), Joshua Agrifolgio (Composer, Guitar), Kendall Laughton (Composer, Lyrics, Drums), Samuel Haecker (Composer, Bass), Adam Parbhoo (Composer, Guitar)
Produced by SNOWMEN
Published by
Open Edition
0 Collected
Catalog No. PROPHET MARG 002
