Teksty: Weatherbox. American Art. Drop The Mike.

With my feet on the grass and my heart beating just a little too fast,
I met your other self when we were so mixed up. Now that's two of you
I have to cut. With my hands now untied, I've got a million more new
words to write. But I met your other self in the lines of a song, he
is raw and wild, but he's awfully strong. And he kicked me off my
chair. And he tied feathers in my hair. With my legs stretching out
and my body pressing against the couch, I lift myself up again with
the palms of my hands, 'cause it's mornin' now and I'm free to dance.
And he kicked me off my chair. And he tied feathers in my hair. And
I lift myself from the couch. And I light my words. And I spit 'em
Out. LISTEN TO ME: there's no epic feeling (left), dont you think
it's best, if we just leave it to rest, like why am i rapping, like do
we have NO ideas left?!!?!
Like Look at his "chest," Look at his Feccking Weatherbox vest, with
his hands flying a "W" like weezer's up next, yeah but you were like
being chased all over and inside of your place, by demons with masks
on and your mind erased, I tried to save the color and the face, the
color of your face, but you still tried to replace me with a different
bass player, you thought i was layered: white with black underneath,
coming for you in your sleep, a million years in the future. COPS in
your COMPUTER.

So here you are again, Man Number Two, got the same hands, just a snap
back from that trap, dont give me any of that, it is that bad, it is
that bad

No, its not that Bad.
No, its not that Bad.
NO, ITS NOT, NO, ITS NOT THAT BAD
NO, ITS NOT, NO, ITS NOT THAT BAD

And he kicked me off my chair. And he tied feathers in my hair