I'll start:

More is more
says the Pope in Rome
Chrome-moly Indians roam home to a dome

Psuedo-satanic science fiction theatre
Johnny was a good man
Now he terrorizes women at the mall with his peter

Slain lions feed on sunlight,
the whiskey stench is the aphrodisiac,
the darkness comes on my face

Omaha to Wichita, I'm living off the grid
Sixteen miles to the nearest bar
That's where I stashed the squid

Under pale sky Cthulu rises
Endless terror rains down
Shake dem tittites, bitch

Satan I'm hailin' the man
and he's drivin' the van
he's got the master plan
mastur in your van

Been borne abrupter, our will corrupter
Someone switch the twitch off sudden
But it must've been a long way coming

Out of the slow slide
Wanted to grow, right?
Over the slim bit
But then kind of still shit.

Twisted the words wrong
Forged out an old song
Was a surprise though
Weren't aiming for old.



This is my continuing problem with lyrics. Good, bad, ugly. They go wherever they want. Even off the top of the skull nonsense makes total sense. Aim to make sense and it doesn't. (and no, just aiming for opposite of intent to try and trick the Thwarting Machine doesn't work either.)

Cardinal Wolsey
Admiral Halsey
beating on children with cerebral palsy

A choir of hookers on angel wings
this is why we can't have nice things

Cunnilingus
Analingus
Next pope is not Sagittarius

Empty space leaves too much room for nothing

My trousers lie over the ocean
My trousers lie over the sea
My trousers lie over the ocean
So bring back my trousers to me

Destroy me, destroy me
I've no uses, you can't employ me

And fish?
It's poo.
Is it battered?
Me too!
Battered Brownfish.
*Ding!*

A friction sort of sawyer, just a dull-ass toof with a wrong-ass set.
The fictionary seeking of a solid gold troof, was a long-ass bet.
Was a slim no name that we never quite knew,
That bent a trimmed up plane into a weather vane screw.
Tried to direct it.
But no air yet did.

Splattered a paintless pint sized trill.
A broken frame on a windowless sill.
Abreast apart-er fins-ed and beleaguered,
A mess, the art of rinsed and uneagered.
While we cracked about on donation trips,
alignment issues originated with our surface slips.
Angled obliquely
some numbers bent weakly.

Early wars of pure displacement aether
Some vowel miner.
A horde of open sounds blasted from the tight spaces underneath our hoods.
The trouble with text was that we were no good.

A flinging sort of mud chucker
bent the lawn all into a sort of damp air,
a sort of mist filth cloud.

We expected rain and then we got it.
Though when it came, it arrived solid.








(Most of the time, i just write like one of those spam autogenerator emails.)

Flint scratcher a flame flipper
A brim patcher a sane slipper.
A dried out and sweltered sort
The died-out all belted forth.
A slow-scrolling list of the names extinct
that you are sure still exist, or well you guess, you think.

A million casts of broken wings it
All plaster pasts of folks still sings it
When under all it's fears thats brings its.
Well, we aren't pleased until smokes all rings its.

Flared up a spit roasting what had been said
Swear us to quit putting foes in the bed

Oh spare us the wit, and we'll spare you the rest.

Prior splint, a cracked up holder
Some violent, a practiced folder
Some of them were not and some of them were
tacked on with mirrors, as any good lure.

Tapped off a bliss tank
flashed up, the wish shrank.

Got a picture with the story but there's something mismatch
Felt some friction and a worry that the holes will not patch.
We were hoping for a sign and sure some signs have been shown,
But the words the walls are bleeding aren't in any language we've known.

A winter of ash dreams
A tailor of split seams

The trouble with smoke screens.

A pleasant disaster
we copied in plaster
We wanted a sure bet
but it don't exist yet.

Rescinded its time stamp
Un-winded the cloud damp
And it is true we got misplaced
But were just too tired to retrace.

Trims it outward bent a cutter
the flying things that streak and flutter.
Crush their little wingsy wires
Switch their lifts with crashy fires.
A Song That Missiles Sing, an anthem.
We burning smashing things, all phantoms.
A faster flasher, end of unscarred
we crater makers, smashers-apart
Flings us fire, holds us heat.
Hissing whistles sings our feet.
Aims us for a more discreet
But always ends us, more loudlee...

A Song That Missiles Sing is a genuinely brilliant line.

Yarr, in troof, there was a long time ago written by me a tune of that name. It was from like 1999, and so in the fashion of my solo musical output of that time, extra terrible, but the title, i have long remained a fan of. Always sort of vaguely intended to write a new one around it, so it randomly pops into random texts these days, as above.

A Pleasant Story For Children To Sing.

Puncturing a flailsafe, a sprinting pest
distended, a fear shake that shows when they rest.
A vision of heartless beasts oversize
the execution was artless, unfair, imprecise.
When waking we would not have feared in the space
but the darkness brought Others, unconciousness-placed.

So battle the quiet, the dimmer, the dull
so resist the slow curling sleepiness pull.

Shield all of your peoples and know what is at stake.
If you want not to lose them, then KEEP THEM AWAKE.