Cursed (CAN) : Two

Post Hardcore / Canada
(2005 - Goodfellow Records)
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It's too late.
It's too late.
I talked.
I told them everything.
I confessed my long list of crimes to all the subway suicides.
Not absolved but laid bare.
And the secret double lives of all the rat race patriarchs go on and on - and let them die there.
I've looked through all the windows.
I've gone through all the drawers.
More empty now than ever before.
We're going down to hell together or not at all.
And the dead hollow shells of consumer investments
That promised completion but just left more holes to fill -
Let 'em kill.
I've got one for the fatalists that like to fuck the mannequins.
So who's the deviant in this success story?
It's too late.
It's too late.
It's too late.
I confessed - sold you out.


Dear victim.
I'm a long time listener but a first time caller.
Dear victim I just wanted to say how sorry
I don't feel about your loss (and my place in it).
A better world?
What would you do in a better world?
But here I go again.
Making one more enemy.
Oh here it comes again.
I said the wrong thing.
I did the wrong thing.
Tore through your safe space.
A slap in the victim's face.
An unauthorized opinion in this house of persecution,
And you know it does more harm than good but we feed it anyway.
Attack, defend, attack again.
One of them I'm one of them.
Attack, defend, attack again - one of them.
So you've got a system down.
How to keep them all running around.
Dishing out apologies so they never stop to say
"I don't owe you anything - you don't know me and never did".
But when all you want to see is a threat and a loaded weapon,
Then sister you know it's guilty of everything.

4. R.I.P.

Crash course in burning out
I said I'd never be the kind
So stuck in glory days
They forget to let dead bury their own.
So what is this that's trying to slow me down?
Feels like the dead weight of all our broken promises
And every stillborn declaration carried too far too long.
I remember the songs the saved me.
And the words that came so easy.
And the pulpits that sprang up beneath our feet.
And it never even crossed our minds the words could ever be wrong.
All that confidence wasted on the young.
We tapped that vein and bled it dry.
Now nothing fits (yeah but what ever did?)
We always thought that we had time.
To let the dead bury their own.
We always thought that we had time.


This is the one Baptist.
I can feel it in the air.
The late night infomercial that's going to save your life.
The warden's call in the eleventh hour.
And it's easy to say but it's hard to remember
That praise is for suckers and death is forever.
Under your nose but just over your head.
Martyr meets maker in ten shades of red.
These are your twelve steps.
Take them on your knees.
Show them at the door and they'll let you in free.
These are your twelve steps.
Take them on your knees.
Show them the blood and you get in for free.
Under your nose but just over your head.
Martyr meets maker in ten shades of red.
And I've got a one track mind.
And you know it's gonna get me tried.
I've got a one track mind.
And one of these days it's gonna get me baptized.
I've got a one track mind (and you know...)
Line twenty six: admits to martyr envy.
And it's true - I wanted it to be my head staring up at you.
Seeing what the eyes still see for ten seconds more.
Hot from the floor.
And ready to serve.
This is your head on a canvas looking my way.
And the kitchen's going to need the plate back.
Take them down to the river and drown them now while you have the chance.
While their young necks fit in your hands.
But save the souls 'cause you never know, never know where they're gonna land.
They grow like weeds when you let them.
You lost your head to a pretty face, Baptist.


He's passed out for the night.
Lived in one house all his life.
You can count the decades in his eyes.
Fifty year old fistfights and the scars they leave.
All the awful liars, all the perfect thieves.
But he trusts in the rule of law and hates the current scapegoats.
Never asked for more.
And what will he have to show for the years of hard work.
Faithful service and standardized routines?
And when he dies alone with nothing in hand.
Burned out shell of a working man.
When he dies alone with empty hands -
How long will the body lie before someone walking by notices the smell.
Calls cops and they come to put him in a box (and mark it with a number)?
Somewhere past the city limits somebody pulls his file.
Stamps it void and throws it on a pile.
We take care of our own, at least on paper.
We take care of our own.
Who gets his number?

7. TWO



They've got words I never heard.
All seeing eyes staring me down through the centuries.
And with thirty three degrees of separation
In between the indoctrinated and the paranoid.
Someone turn the lights on.
Got an old and sinking feeling that the wolves are at my doorstep.
In the concrete.
In the context.
Blindness of the ages passed on to the children.
Built the courthouse.
Built the schools and built the circles they live and die in.
And the wolves can wait it out while they live and die in doubt.
The lies that fall from the books we trusted.
The skull and bones that rise again.
The devils in the details, in the walls.
Someone turn the lights on.
Got an old and sinking feeling
That the wolves are at my doorstep,
And always have been.
Someone turn the lights on.
Turn the lights on.
Turn the lights on.
Someone turn the lights on.
Turn the lights on.
Turn the lights on.


"Who killed the time?
What's left that's mine"?
Face down in a nation of thieves,
What do you do when you're not on your knees
Drawing out nine to five disease?
(You kill the time, get back in line)
Last of the great team players.
Just payments away from freedom.
Swinging from his neck in a two car garage (oh no, years to go).
Signed out like a company car.
He leaves behind a trail of scars
And a morbid fear of closed-in spaces,
Collared shirts and dying alone.


When the lights went out you were shoved to the ground.
Power station exploded.
They're all watching it go down.
This is a heatwave.
This is a heatwave.
This is a heatwave.
Someone's gonna get burned.
And all your trust boils down to this:
The neighbor's hands that hold your wrists tight.
Tight around your property rights.
Hands on you.
Eyes on you.
Teeth in you in the dark.
The clock has stopped.
No alarm went off.
Remember when you slept with doors unlocked?
Well that was then and this is now.
And this is now.
And this is a heatwave.
Someone's gonna get burned.
Someone always gets burned.


Welcome home in a bodybag from the front lines of defeat.
Discharged "to a normal life" in a room
That's two feet wide and six feet deep.
And the flag on your coffin, it might as well be the nails.
When all else fails, you are the wind
That sets their sails to a war
Played out before you were born.
Business as usual.
It's business as usual.
Your business as usual is killing us all.
So bring out your dead, chalk up the score and we'll go through the motions once more.
Buried on a Sunday in a military grave with a six gun salute from the master to the slave.
For the life that you gave, the promises that they broke, and the bribes that you paid.
Back in the land of the dead you're buried where you fall.
No glorious deeds etched into a wall.
The monument is the blood in the sand, blood in the oil.
Blood on your hands.
When hell comes home, there's hell to pay.
This is the price of oil.

teksty dodane przez Morticia - Edytuj teksty