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Castles
CunninLynguists; Aesop Rock; Sadistik
Popularity ยท Low
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๐ฌ๐ง English ยท Original
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Lyrics
Original
Translation
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Oh yeah, it's time they come down... down
He said, "Fuck sobriety, death to the worker bees"
Thirteen circles I've stepped for eternity
Burning purple, stressed on a murder spree
It's self-inflicted, don't get it twisted
These knives in my back now, Elliott Smith (yeah)
Rides in the background, melodies fit (yeah)
Mixed with the misfits, fix is the hurt
When the lips that I kiss with press to the dirt
French-kiss vixens, distant and cursed
Burned bridges occurred from scriptin' my words
Word, so I'll chisel a verse
On these lie-filled halls that I've lived in and searched
I'm still lost in a head of catacombs
Cause I build walls like I'm Edgar Allan Poe
I've killed off every damsel that I know
For castles that I keep, castles that I know
I'm having spirits in the dark, laying under moonlight
Laughing with a stranger, like I saved her from her doomed life
Pop a couple Percs, a perk of anonymity
Trapped within a curse that I created with my energy
A path that I rehearse, a cycle on repeat
Life is like a lion and I'm dying at its feet
I roll another sweet, check my muted Treo
I've seen them as the plot, too busy caught up in the B-roll
My eye up to the keyhole, scared to turn the knob
And go out on my own, instead I blend in with the mob
My memory bank's the only thing I tend to rob
And every time I phone the lob, I'm out of dodge
It's hard, on the boulevard, and other clichรฉs
The type of bullshit that I'm feeding self these days
Corrosion on my relays, one thing my mirrors chose
An imp in new clothes, exposed
I mow a dead lawn, aim for the alpha
Ten claws deck the halls of Valhalla
Not a man, a receptacle for crest-fallen matter
Never tempered or pressed into patterns
But just won't die, instead a palpitation from the plasma
Pumping disenchanting anecdotes and antiquated data at 'em
I get these headaches that climb down into my stomach
Then off into my extremities and out into the public
In a flood of shadow puppetry, something in the air
Got a tiny pool of energy becoming self-aware
It's recognizing family and alphanumeric characters
Scenery and deities with unassuming avatars
Close encounters exacerbate his condition
From classy to a bastion of classic misdirection
Tune into the Casio adventures
When the rest of me can barely form a god-damn sentence
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