Chatter Chatter

98 born into hate
My Nusu nature can not relate
To whitey nations stuck on the moon
Glad I'm down here labelled half coon
Is all some see
Feel bad for Nina
Male oppression
Is the daily
Sold cheap
On the daily
The mail stokes
Oppression daily
Yer dads perception
Altered daily
For 70p
Such hate laid plainly
See a mirror right there
And a noose
Stark and bare
Not a threat
Why you stare
It's how it is
Let it blare
Really hate in general
Been stuck up in my mental
There's a, there's a, they say
They say there's poison in that lake over there
They say the kids are strange over there
Good times for the old days over there
Let it go for the old days from way back when
Can you dance or sing
Oh you poor thing
Hold dreams of wedding rings and millionaire's with pennant rings yet
The lakes still black
The waters thick
Too many lack
Mortar and brick
Throw some bodies
See if it sticks
Piles of bodies
One more will do the trick
One more will do the trick
Still hate in general
Been forced into my mental
There's a chatter chatter in my head
Monsters peek from under bed
Gerry curled and my mum hurls
Singing humming no ones there
Talking laughing, that voice there
Crying screaming knock knock
Shaking leaning, who's there
Creaking freaking, is that door
Opened up and smelted down
Overwhelmed and leave my town,
Mr. Mayor is running round screams 65 in noiseless sound

Just focus now
Can you feel that sun
Can you feel yourself
If the day is done
Chatter fills my void my subject lost in illusions
But with my problems I'm under no illusions
But what of you
What speaks through
That mental static
Dressed as you
Smells like you
Tastes like you
Weighs on you
Well that's not you
They build your Rome
You think that's Rome
Augustan heads
Lay in mud
Split and broken
The cracks in marble
The rapture looms
Mr. Mayor screams patriarchal
The smoke is choking
It's way too carnal
The rapture looms
The past in plumes
I see the end, it's empty
I feel the end, it's endless
I touch the end, it's nothing
I am the end I'm nothing
Watch it burn fiddle in hand ashen tomes, you'll get that though
A bunch of English bones
Scattered through your English homes
Placed in piles according to your definition of the English isles
Skull shavings
Skull shavings look just like coconut except for the blackened scars and forcep marks
That leave us with a glut of savings
Stuck with Mr. Mayor and his cravings
Till my perceptual doors are closed to the front yet open
To the endless
My perpetual flaws are forgotten so abrupt caught senseless in ascendance
So feckless and helpless
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