Going Mad As The Street Bins

You know, it’s easy to look back on days

Like a dustbin’s cluttered centre

The placenta of the city on the run

I went to mass, and I asked them, how?

And the priest just told me, no!

You’ve got mind enough, if you’ve mind enough to moan

Lady beckett and her horseless crew

Arrive with swords all risen

While I’ve wasted half my youth on being hungry

And I just don’t know who to blame

‘Cause I'm as bad as any other

And God, the father, won’t even send me a lover

And Jesus was a miffty kind of mother

I'm bombarded with all types of lies

I have to juggle paranoia

Then I'm made to feel some way about the outcome

And it seems a leader’s only good

In the wake of hindsight’s plain

Then we’ll see how well a man can do without one

That’s why we cast our father’s eye

In the ditch with all deception

And prefer the tongue of hell under the covers

And why Jesus was a miffty kind of mother

But even he won’t hear me out

I hear j dilla on the boom-bap beats

While masters pass me by

There’re far too many albums to get them down you

But who’s got time to listen when

We’re all possums to the slaughter

Who’ve built a flex to dodge all types of danger

And an idea’s the most disarming thing

When you’re used to the old motions

But time will wear you down like wine I wager

And all this comes in many forms

The Sun, the sea, the father

Who had a switchblade to the neck of his own daughter

And Jesus, who’s a miffty kind of mother