Letra de Crows 1 - Aesop Rock
Letra de canci�n de Crows 1 de Aesop Rock lyrics
Birds of a black, black feather stick together forever and ever and they always remember you, and all of the shit you do, they pass it to the baby birdies and then they remember too. Little baby bluebird eyes turn black, without forgetting the face of the guy in the mask, when you see me baby will you scream or will you laugh? Little baby blue bird, eyes turn black
4 and 20 gory pantone black crows shredding innards, the silouettes are fencing lefty scissors, separating horn and hoof as evil's own arpeggiators, they piggy back the tombs of all your deadest friends and neighbors, by the getty image, green-cheese moon, dead-of-winter shit, graveyard tchk! tchk! shifter shit, brother was a face card, crown like a heart-shaped tunnel of woven branches leaning in over his hydro-plaining pace car chase... wait up let me isolate the bass more, gate of god's acre, aim to rake the snow off each forsaken name here, supposedly closure'll free the vipers out the bosom, personally I think it's a bunch of bullshit, prisoners, tradition is for lovers, god forbid he flip the witch against her coven on some 'dip or play the dozens', now i baptize skips in larvae and dental records, on a little plot pregnant with 6 million sentence-enders, and the tech support for tragedy's emphatically horrendous, teenage operators explaining what bated breath is, pass, i wish it were something i could diagram on a napkin so you won't feel so detached if it should happen to you privately, publicly your shadows'll cat call back, happy to split the button eye and burlap doll, crack and crypt, bats eject like cousin death's wing-ed lapdogs ricocheting sonar of the sacrilege, now let me slow this whole shit down for all you half-goat cowards, i'll even grit my teeth for you: i am so completely off the god-damn grid it's not a question of addressing me, it's "what do these symbols under the dresser mean", perhaps a little dash of karma chameleons through the entropy for good/young, could've used a good lung, still, proximity to corpses wasn't nothing to the kid but unforgiving science or cinematic horros, fast forward, my knee in the gut of a glass coffin, "remember that cow in the dean's office" seems awkward, and I know your people donated pints to the same pavement but for ash and bone to share a space with strangers seems outrageous, ain't it? Maybe a dialog of howls that reshapes the jowls and face somehow relates to whatever you have found among a thousand cloned shrines, either way - dope stone lion
And they call to let you know your frien dis dead in a box, the crows have the tools to get the meat out of the box, scientific, ritualistic, headstone cold foxes still rot, I'm not gonna rot, no, fuck that snot, you can let them let you rot, man, but I'm not going to watch, I'm not gonna stand atop your plot, I love you friends, but I'm just not, on the other hand if your ashes are scattered in the sea, I will swim in the sea and you'll be with me, and if your shit is scattered at the roots of a tree, I will climb that tree
Everything you think you're hiding shows, in the way you view the graves like a string of tiny thrones, messages you'd tucked away for keeps has resurfaced to be heard amidst the butchery and beaks, you don't want the paggengers to pass, you want each cow taxidermy'd fatter than the last, mausoleum lighting is a rush, while it might enhance a silhouette it might expose a crutch, a proud chest puffed to the heavens, holds nothing if we're cutting past the muscle and the tendon, and we will be cutting past the muscle and the tendon...
4 and 20 gory pantone black crows shredding innards, the silouettes are fencing lefty scissors, separating horn and hoof as evil's own arpeggiators, they piggy back the tombs of all your deadest friends and neighbors, by the getty image, green-cheese moon, dead-of-winter shit, graveyard tchk! tchk! shifter shit, brother was a face card, crown like a heart-shaped tunnel of woven branches leaning in over his hydro-plaining pace car chase... wait up let me isolate the bass more, gate of god's acre, aim to rake the snow off each forsaken name here, supposedly closure'll free the vipers out the bosom, personally I think it's a bunch of bullshit, prisoners, tradition is for lovers, god forbid he flip the witch against her coven on some 'dip or play the dozens', now i baptize skips in larvae and dental records, on a little plot pregnant with 6 million sentence-enders, and the tech support for tragedy's emphatically horrendous, teenage operators explaining what bated breath is, pass, i wish it were something i could diagram on a napkin so you won't feel so detached if it should happen to you privately, publicly your shadows'll cat call back, happy to split the button eye and burlap doll, crack and crypt, bats eject like cousin death's wing-ed lapdogs ricocheting sonar of the sacrilege, now let me slow this whole shit down for all you half-goat cowards, i'll even grit my teeth for you: i am so completely off the god-damn grid it's not a question of addressing me, it's "what do these symbols under the dresser mean", perhaps a little dash of karma chameleons through the entropy for good/young, could've used a good lung, still, proximity to corpses wasn't nothing to the kid but unforgiving science or cinematic horros, fast forward, my knee in the gut of a glass coffin, "remember that cow in the dean's office" seems awkward, and I know your people donated pints to the same pavement but for ash and bone to share a space with strangers seems outrageous, ain't it? Maybe a dialog of howls that reshapes the jowls and face somehow relates to whatever you have found among a thousand cloned shrines, either way - dope stone lion
And they call to let you know your frien dis dead in a box, the crows have the tools to get the meat out of the box, scientific, ritualistic, headstone cold foxes still rot, I'm not gonna rot, no, fuck that snot, you can let them let you rot, man, but I'm not going to watch, I'm not gonna stand atop your plot, I love you friends, but I'm just not, on the other hand if your ashes are scattered in the sea, I will swim in the sea and you'll be with me, and if your shit is scattered at the roots of a tree, I will climb that tree
Everything you think you're hiding shows, in the way you view the graves like a string of tiny thrones, messages you'd tucked away for keeps has resurfaced to be heard amidst the butchery and beaks, you don't want the paggengers to pass, you want each cow taxidermy'd fatter than the last, mausoleum lighting is a rush, while it might enhance a silhouette it might expose a crutch, a proud chest puffed to the heavens, holds nothing if we're cutting past the muscle and the tendon, and we will be cutting past the muscle and the tendon...
