(Introduction:
Forty four flies swarm around his head as if attached by leashes, rendering him with an easily accessible face, and them with an inescapable landing bay. This is clearly a mutually destructive situation and ultimately when the cold claws of raw mash and excess screech down every wall, the last thing a man needs is forty four flies leashed and bound to his scalp. He is no Mister Miyage snapping at the air with takeway chopsticks. It is often said there is a certain joy in wilful self-destruction, a joy only interrupted by the uncomfortable tickle of insects dancing across the nape of the neck.)
[Chorus]
Forty four flies on leashes and you wonder why they act this way
With a collar wrapped tight round their necks pulling down
Left one sole choice for a landing bay
The flies on your face ain't leaving
Have an outstanding day with forty four knots in your hair
Fly swatting with the r*****ed fat cats catching prey
Forty four flies on leashes, you wonder why they chat this way
When the leather's wrapped tight round their necks chained down
Trying to use your face as a landing bay
The flies in your mouth aren't moving
Have an outstanding stay with forty four pests in the air
Fly swatting like a tangled arachnid catching prey
I am no Mister Miyage on a chopstick hype with a bowl full of insects
I am not a part of your hotbed of rulebooks burn to a mountain of smouldering incest
I'm not equipped to pick wings off you lot and smear your remains on the wall
Like blood red warnings staining the halls of the paper mache cage made for you all
Nah, are you buzzing?
Dumb question
Rhetorical in part yet relevant
To your six bruk legs and your saucepan of gumed up nights stewed down to the sediment
Scraped up sculpted and sold as a human
Second hand skin still delicate
Bought from an alleyway salesman the layrs peeled off to reveal a disgusting development
d*** who laid these eggs in my eyes again?
If I boil them alive would you die for them?
Your machinery can't turn flies to men
Best kill them on arrival then
I'll be a drugged out mess when the cycle ends
Let these eyeballs wrinkle and crack
Till I wake one morn shrunk down on the ceiling
To find four cellophane wings on my back
[Chorus]
The skies kept flies on leashes, and they wonder why we act this way
With a collar wrapped tight round our necks pulling down
Left one dead town for a landing bay
The flies at the gates ain't leaving
Have an outstanding day with the beggars and the drunks in a dumb
Fly swatting like a r*****ed fat cat catching prey
The skies kept flies on leashes, you wonder why they chat this way
When the leather's wrapped tight round their necks chained down
Trying to use this city as a landing bay
The flies on the ground ain't moving
Have an outstanding stay with the mentally marred in a yard
Fly swatting with the drunken arachnids catching prey
TI will not move when the sky pukes dark clouds billowing across false borders
I will not morph to a tin man sobing on a hand me down sket when the gods get nauseous
I will not feed this obese gang of pigs with a singular slice of myself
When my face thaws out and the icicles melt
And the pavements finally felt the uncomfortable tickle of an insect dancing
Across a dark street
With the inbreds marching
SLAP! That's another one
Pin him to the frame with the other ones
Ain't that charming
Wahgwan starlets, gas fuelled b******s, picket sign punch bags, hand made martyrs
How's that revolution of yours moving?
Limp fish swing for the steel pinatas
'Fly my pretties!' setting up camp in the rolls of fat
In the belly of the city with a bowl of smack
Like a sundried prune with a soul attached
Fall prey to an infants thumb
Brain swelling in elastic skin
Till I wake one morn fully formed eyes golden
And let them all buzz till the fat b**** sings
I can sort of sense it all sweetening in hind sight
Regugitated sugar faded pictures of the high life
I told 'em peace peace slipped the razor out and sliced twice
Slash the leash leash I told them live fast and fly right
Forty four flies swarm around his head as if attached by leashes, rendering him with an easily accessible face, and them with an inescapable landing bay. This is clearly a mutually destructive situation and ultimately when the cold claws of raw mash and excess screech down every wall, the last thing a man needs is forty four flies leashed and bound to his scalp. He is no Mister Miyage snapping at the air with takeway chopsticks. It is often said there is a certain joy in wilful self-destruction, a joy only interrupted by the uncomfortable tickle of insects dancing across the nape of the neck.)
[Chorus]
Forty four flies on leashes and you wonder why they act this way
With a collar wrapped tight round their necks pulling down
Left one sole choice for a landing bay
The flies on your face ain't leaving
Have an outstanding day with forty four knots in your hair
Fly swatting with the r*****ed fat cats catching prey
Forty four flies on leashes, you wonder why they chat this way
When the leather's wrapped tight round their necks chained down
Trying to use your face as a landing bay
The flies in your mouth aren't moving
Have an outstanding stay with forty four pests in the air
Fly swatting like a tangled arachnid catching prey
I am no Mister Miyage on a chopstick hype with a bowl full of insects
I am not a part of your hotbed of rulebooks burn to a mountain of smouldering incest
I'm not equipped to pick wings off you lot and smear your remains on the wall
Like blood red warnings staining the halls of the paper mache cage made for you all
Nah, are you buzzing?
Dumb question
Rhetorical in part yet relevant
To your six bruk legs and your saucepan of gumed up nights stewed down to the sediment
Scraped up sculpted and sold as a human
Second hand skin still delicate
Bought from an alleyway salesman the layrs peeled off to reveal a disgusting development
d*** who laid these eggs in my eyes again?
If I boil them alive would you die for them?
Your machinery can't turn flies to men
Best kill them on arrival then
I'll be a drugged out mess when the cycle ends
Let these eyeballs wrinkle and crack
Till I wake one morn shrunk down on the ceiling
To find four cellophane wings on my back
[Chorus]
The skies kept flies on leashes, and they wonder why we act this way
With a collar wrapped tight round our necks pulling down
Left one dead town for a landing bay
The flies at the gates ain't leaving
Have an outstanding day with the beggars and the drunks in a dumb
Fly swatting like a r*****ed fat cat catching prey
The skies kept flies on leashes, you wonder why they chat this way
When the leather's wrapped tight round their necks chained down
Trying to use this city as a landing bay
The flies on the ground ain't moving
Have an outstanding stay with the mentally marred in a yard
Fly swatting with the drunken arachnids catching prey
TI will not move when the sky pukes dark clouds billowing across false borders
I will not morph to a tin man sobing on a hand me down sket when the gods get nauseous
I will not feed this obese gang of pigs with a singular slice of myself
When my face thaws out and the icicles melt
And the pavements finally felt the uncomfortable tickle of an insect dancing
Across a dark street
With the inbreds marching
SLAP! That's another one
Pin him to the frame with the other ones
Ain't that charming
Wahgwan starlets, gas fuelled b******s, picket sign punch bags, hand made martyrs
How's that revolution of yours moving?
Limp fish swing for the steel pinatas
'Fly my pretties!' setting up camp in the rolls of fat
In the belly of the city with a bowl of smack
Like a sundried prune with a soul attached
Fall prey to an infants thumb
Brain swelling in elastic skin
Till I wake one morn fully formed eyes golden
And let them all buzz till the fat b**** sings
I can sort of sense it all sweetening in hind sight
Regugitated sugar faded pictures of the high life
I told 'em peace peace slipped the razor out and sliced twice
Slash the leash leash I told them live fast and fly right