Personal Journalist

Lyrics

(spoken) Sage Francis...Personal Journalist, 1968 to 2001 (Verse 1) He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating Cause they're still debating over what rhyme skill is Sick of waiting for time killers to get over their murder raps And then he sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure Seek for closure but stayed open minded Always seemed to keep composure, peeking over both his eyelids Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra violence Teaching others how to be more loving with brotherly guidance A bleeding soldier knows the science He does the math quick and writes without having to think twice Without asking for advice, letting the scalps peel Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal His death mask conceals his face paint It feels like a safe place, but it ain't Feels like its safety seals faith, but it don't He's not a real saint, just another one of those religious political jokes And that's not even half of the nutshell Cats are compelled to crack open and extract his blood cells From, when he comes back from hell again He'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton (over scratching) Sage Francis...anti-socialite...secret admirer Student loaner...continental drifter...professional bootlegger Spin doctor...self-referentialist...personal journalist (bridge) Word is the worthless wordsmiths Were conversing with impersonal twists Heard they're concerned with making the Earth shift These kid games are silly When all art is signed anonymous He'll turn that big bang theory into a small pop hypothesis (spoken) Sage Francis...death merchant...1968 to 2001 Devoted son, father to none (Verse 2) Husband to something soulless And didn't spend his life with who he loved The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove His time is up! He's still the type poised to make a comeback Kill the white noise til the sun's black Moonwalk around New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep Who square-dance circles inside a box of beats The California Dream, sequences end quick Couldn't find middle ground in little towns on some Midwest trip He stood for something but fell for every trick in the book So he stopped believing, in the Avant-Garden of Eden Get off the cross! Of course we need the wood to burn a godless heathen Catch him red handed only if his palms are bleeding (over scratching) Sage Francis Non-profit Artificially intelligent Avant Garde-ian angel dustmite 1968 to 2001... it's been a pleasure, it's been a pleasure Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine (Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine) Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine Get out my weathered face...