Pounds per Square Inch
Irk
GENRE
I am becoming seriously concerned
The end of days is turning into something of an inconvenience
Step out onto hot tarmac and you’re faced with two fat schoolboys offering a wisecrack
You reach for something like a feeling of clemency
They’re disappointed in me
One ends up speared on a tree and sits deflated like a used rubber But the lovers never finished, they just both agreed to give up and Go home and sit deflated like a dead dog
The first boy met the man of the cloth, turn it off
Clean and warm, shameless
What becomes of our second player? The other primate?
The other sister of the mountain? To whom shall you answer?
As I sit plotting graphs, one great hand appears through a newly formed hole in the door and I, no more afraid, politely ask the vast incumbent for a pencil
The moon on the man and his foot can get to fuck, sir
The moon of a man and his foot can get to fuck, sir
The emptiness comes with the job. You make me laugh, sir
And soon I will make you laugh too, and maybe cry
Where the A66 used to be, under a bridge made
Of car parts and petrified trees. Nobody loved you
Stupid. Don’t know how to speak. Spit on all your mistakes
The moon on the man on his fucking foot will become
Pieces and pieces of people existing as ideas, sustained by consideration
Otherwise formless in eternal context, a minor variation
Seemingly a waste of time, but actually not
For the sake of your short life, I would probably say don’t bother
I am your brother, you can trust me, there is hope for all of us
I told you I would make you laugh
The end of days is turning into something of an inconvenience
Step out onto hot tarmac and you’re faced with two fat schoolboys offering a wisecrack
You reach for something like a feeling of clemency
They’re disappointed in me
One ends up speared on a tree and sits deflated like a used rubber But the lovers never finished, they just both agreed to give up and Go home and sit deflated like a dead dog
The first boy met the man of the cloth, turn it off
Clean and warm, shameless
What becomes of our second player? The other primate?
The other sister of the mountain? To whom shall you answer?
As I sit plotting graphs, one great hand appears through a newly formed hole in the door and I, no more afraid, politely ask the vast incumbent for a pencil
The moon on the man and his foot can get to fuck, sir
The moon of a man and his foot can get to fuck, sir
The emptiness comes with the job. You make me laugh, sir
And soon I will make you laugh too, and maybe cry
Where the A66 used to be, under a bridge made
Of car parts and petrified trees. Nobody loved you
Stupid. Don’t know how to speak. Spit on all your mistakes
The moon on the man on his fucking foot will become
Pieces and pieces of people existing as ideas, sustained by consideration
Otherwise formless in eternal context, a minor variation
Seemingly a waste of time, but actually not
For the sake of your short life, I would probably say don’t bother
I am your brother, you can trust me, there is hope for all of us
I told you I would make you laugh
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