The Stuff
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Lyrics
An ambitious young writer in a cabin in the woods,
Slowly approaching the end
Deadline weighing on his mind,
Slowly running out of time
Then the stuff starts leaking in
A sharp-toothed critter with eleven-hundred mouths
Spitting acid all over his pages
"I wouldn't buy your book on Amazon or Barnes & Noble
Even if I had a gift card."
Then he grabs him by his nipples,
Throws him out the window
The ambitious young writer lands directly in a well.
What's the stuff.
It's made up.
It's the monster underneath your bed.
What's the stuff.
It's a bluff.
Your fear is not your friend.
What's the stuff.
A father with his baby,
In the last house on the left.
A new life has begun.
Wants to be a better dad,
Better than the one he had.
Then the stuff possesses his son.
His eyes rolls back in his head.
He smokes a cigarette and says,
"A better daddy wouldn't let me smoke.
I'm taking the neighbor to the father son picnic,
Cuz at least Frank can grow a beard."
Puts the cigs out on his nipples,
Throws him out the window.
The new father lands directly in a swamp.
Fuck the stuff.
It's made up.
The calls coming from your head.
Fuck the stuff.
That's enough.
Your fear is not your friend.
Fuck the stuff
A little shorty porker at crystal lake summer camp.
In the middle of a dare.
Kids chanting, "jump off the cliff,
Who cares if you cant swim."
Then the stuff apparates in the air.
It looks like him but older and more confident,
And says, "bro if you do this you will drown.
These kids are not so tough.
I should know, I'm their stuff.
Never let anyone push you around. "
Then it grips his chubby nipples,
Whips him through his window.
The little shorty porker lands safely in his bunk.
Trust the stuff,
In your gut.
The voice in the back of your head.
Trust the stuff,
It's enough.
Fear can be your friend.
Trust the stuff.
Well, here we are,
We've come to the end,
But what becomes of your faithful narrator friend?
Flesh and blood I've become,
Conjured from the songs,
But now the songs are all done.
I guess I live here then.
In an apartments with the tallboys,
But I promise you they're grown men.
Why do they call themselves boys?
Why do they still play with toys?
They keep asking me for something called rent!
Help me if you can,
Not a tall boy, a small man,
By playing this album on repeat,
And some day in the mirror,
It will be come clearer,
As you and the tall boys finally meet
But seriously what becomes of me now?