Sage Francis - Personal Journalist lyrics

Sage Francispersonal Journalist, 1968 to 2001

He left with deep breaths in each
Chest that needs less innovating
Cause they're still debating over
What rhyme skill is
Sick of waiting for time killers to
Get over their murder raps
And then he sold his own shirt
Off his back for cheap exposure
Seek for closure but stayed open minded
Always seemed to keep composure
Peeking over both his eyelids
Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures
Of ultra violence
Teaching others how to be more
Loving with brotherly guidance
A bleeding soldier knows the science
He does the math quick and writes
Without having to think twice
Without asking for advice
Letting the scalps peel
Having brains picked by head lice
Before the scabs heal
His death mask conceals his face paint
It feels like a safe place, but it ain't
Feels like it's safety seals faith
But it don't he's not a real saint
Just another one of those
Religious political jokes
And that's not even half of the nutshell
Cats are compelled to crack open
And extract his blood cells
From, when he comes back from hell again
He'll have a few bones to
Pick with a fractured skeleton

Sage Francisanti-socialitesecret admirer
Student loanercontinental drifterprofessional
Bootlegger
Spin doctorself-referentialistpersonal
Journalist

Word is the worthless wordsmiths
Were conversing with impersonal twists
Heard they're concerned with making
The Earth shift these kid games are silly
When all art is signed anonymous
He'll turn that big bang theory
Into a small pop hypothesis

Sage Francisdeath merchant1968 to 2001
Devoted son, father to none

Husband to something soulless
And didn't spend his life with who he loved
The hardest workers in showbiz need
No diamond studded glove
His time is up! He's still the
Type poised to make a comeback
Kill the white noise til the sun's black
Moonwalk around New York City and get
Murdered by flocks of sheep
Who square dance circles inside
A box of beats
The California Dream, sequences end quick
Couldn't find middle ground in little
Towns on some Midwest trip
He stood for something but fell for
Every trick in the book
So he stopped believing
In the Avant-Garden of Eden
Get off the cross! Of course we need
The wood to burn a godless heathen
Catch him red handed only if
His palms are bleeding

Sage Francis non-profit
Artificially intelligent
Avant Garde-ian angel dustmite
1968 to 2001 it's been a pleasure
It's been a pleasure

Get out my weathered face
With all that sunshine
(Get out my weathered face
With all that sunshine)
Get out my weathered face
With all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face