I got time on my hands.
I got time on my hands.
Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts – two turntables and a microphone.
Soy un perdedor.
Now I’m rolling in sweat with a loaf of cold bread and a taco in my jeans.
When nothing’s right just close your eyes, close your eyes and you’re gone.
Hell yes, now I’m moving this way, I’m doing this thing. Please enjoy.
You wouldn’t know what to say to yourself – love is a poverty you couldn’t sell. Misery waits in vague hotels, to be evicted.
I’m tired of fighting, fighting for a lost cause.
Touch it real good if you want a piece. Party people know I’m that type of freak.
Think I’m in love… with The Information.
It grooves and clicks and jumps like a fanciful anxious thought, beautiful and foreboding.
What eludes easy definition becomes a core strength.