BreakCanon
08-10-07, 01:48 AM
Trashcan banging estranged from the alley scene,
Vagrants stew festival plus mind numbing musical clichés,
Drunken laughter mixed with desperation niche,
Plenty of sticks around but no wherewithal to scratch the itch,
Freedom amongst the dirty disenfranchised barbarians,
Bearded men and haggard women, aristocrats in their own right,
What’s right is right, and they know what’s wrong,
But lack the words to carry the idea along,
Learning never fazed them,
Irrelevant that they never showed up for class,
The world has taught them that you don’t need,
Another human being to scratch your own ****ing back,
So they clap in rhythm to the trashcan beat,
After clearing the metal of anything to eat.
No matter if you live off garbage or kindness,
Ignoring the dichotomy is a form of blindness,
So get off your high horse, your royal highness,
And bear witness to the strata’s form of black magic.
A fool once told me,
“Don’t listen to a wise man who would deceive you with choice,
He talks out of his ass, and loves the sound of his own voice…”
Good advice from a fool, who never relied on fate,
To provide him with the scraps tossed from another person’s plate,
More instinctual than your run of the mill money grubbing scheme,
Born of misdirected ideals mated with the American dream,
Of course I realize that their lives are not easy,
Nor pretty, pretty ****ty actually, especially in the city,
Where the country itself is a jungle of the mind,
And to buy into the illusion proves one to many blind.
Whether self destructive or preservation,
Bear no reservations, when you encounter deprivation,
Stave off the hatred,
There is a kink in the wall,
A bug in the matrix,
So if you see a haggard denizen,
The relation is what you make it.
Hand me down tales of legendary vagrants (agents),
Paul Bunyan and Appleseed posters adorn thrifty basements,
Paradigms and schema’s forming popular consciousness,
In that same spirit of individualism, the vagrants hold a conference,
In every alley and every corner, every nook and cranny to be found,
If you listen hard enough you cannot possibly miss the sound,
The banging on the trashcans speak to the rhythm of life,
And death may come sooner than later,
But they bang and bang in spite,
Not out of spite.
Vagrants stew festival plus mind numbing musical clichés,
Drunken laughter mixed with desperation niche,
Plenty of sticks around but no wherewithal to scratch the itch,
Freedom amongst the dirty disenfranchised barbarians,
Bearded men and haggard women, aristocrats in their own right,
What’s right is right, and they know what’s wrong,
But lack the words to carry the idea along,
Learning never fazed them,
Irrelevant that they never showed up for class,
The world has taught them that you don’t need,
Another human being to scratch your own ****ing back,
So they clap in rhythm to the trashcan beat,
After clearing the metal of anything to eat.
No matter if you live off garbage or kindness,
Ignoring the dichotomy is a form of blindness,
So get off your high horse, your royal highness,
And bear witness to the strata’s form of black magic.
A fool once told me,
“Don’t listen to a wise man who would deceive you with choice,
He talks out of his ass, and loves the sound of his own voice…”
Good advice from a fool, who never relied on fate,
To provide him with the scraps tossed from another person’s plate,
More instinctual than your run of the mill money grubbing scheme,
Born of misdirected ideals mated with the American dream,
Of course I realize that their lives are not easy,
Nor pretty, pretty ****ty actually, especially in the city,
Where the country itself is a jungle of the mind,
And to buy into the illusion proves one to many blind.
Whether self destructive or preservation,
Bear no reservations, when you encounter deprivation,
Stave off the hatred,
There is a kink in the wall,
A bug in the matrix,
So if you see a haggard denizen,
The relation is what you make it.
Hand me down tales of legendary vagrants (agents),
Paul Bunyan and Appleseed posters adorn thrifty basements,
Paradigms and schema’s forming popular consciousness,
In that same spirit of individualism, the vagrants hold a conference,
In every alley and every corner, every nook and cranny to be found,
If you listen hard enough you cannot possibly miss the sound,
The banging on the trashcans speak to the rhythm of life,
And death may come sooner than later,
But they bang and bang in spite,
Not out of spite.