...

ve from objective it came from inanimate situation no relation close liaison no conversation no social contagion bother me wanna be comrade intrusive i remain inanimate aloof skip counterfeit like no can do bitch my vinyl vibrate higher than you bitch i represent ain't meant to pursue which one of you oh you all wanna ride well i ain't got room stress while we continue to make shit tight the loosest blown out base you got a minute you're in my way whats wrong wrong with who so whats going on okay where you at right now i'm not with you inanimate persuasion strictly still life with all of my occasion inanimate surge of inspiration glow like thermonuclear invasion compared to swapping thoughts regurgitation i revel in lack of slightest acquaintance no rancid level after taste inanimate negate opinion as it unravel like enigmatic onion layers of interdimensional dominion blown out base yeah bitch my smoke my butane my boots my headphones my medicated noose my deadroom my schwartzwald hat my mac my macaque skull my lysergic stash empty streets at night my bike apartment sink filled with dry ice condemned tenement brandished rail spike disturb in flat noir and stale white grey cloud curled around my bearded compound like boa one of two thunderbolt we ain't broke on tour concrète antique trapdoor twenty-four spots to get that get right when i gotta get right some more type of get right i can't afford i covet these things more than any living i've never been blown out base i'm so northern california i call scratch bammer pure overhander live show on a banner axl rose in a blender slash on satan's fender rick james on the cover running through your lover like mean mr. mustard stadium style for those who came to jock watch that man salute you endless nameless lady godivas we snoop to like eighty-three mermaids in brooklyn zoo inanimate ghetto box we used to pimp through blown out base inanimate fixation obsessed with my demo tape collection inanimate riffs i'm glazin brag your making music naw you're makin bacon skinhead skinhead inna dublin i like my ipod more than fuckin blown out base