sage francis:
build up your saliva, and get ready to kill the fire.

spit in the face of figure heads.
give 'em a taste of the shit i said.
build a place for children to escape the inbred human race of living deadbeat
dads milking the motherless childcare system.
let the sleepers have another nightmare from christian conservatives.
they don't fight fair, and any religion would murder kids,
if they don't quite care about the condition of the prison where we're serving bids.
once i escape my skin cell,
i won't be banging on the bars of soap that i dropped into my living hell.
the seemingly indestructable knuckles of my fists are clean,
keeping eyes wide open and bulging out like mr. bean.
misdemeanors made to look like felonies, the prison queen,
is existing in his own filth and feeling no guilt it seems.
it's a dream with cheetah speed we're chasing after, some are running quick.
track teams want me to lead, but face the fact...y'all can't catch up to it.
pace at your own pace on this race track, you'll eventually get lapped,
on your last leg while stretching. my aggression,
is just a lack of serotonin. plug the jack of your telephone in to the wall,
so i can call your bluff...just to say, "what's up?"
"how ya doin'?"
now i've ruined the beautiful sound of silence.
won't get quiet until the voices in my head come down with laryngitis.
talking, talking, talking, much to say, so little sense to make,
bedposts get chopped off once innocence gets raped.
close the curtains and drapes, pull down the blinds,
cover your ears, block your nose and mouth, shut your eyes.
there's a blackbox in my head which is actually read,
when i crash and burn it keeps a record of every last word i said.
it goes "one" for the finger-fuck, "two" for the peace sign,
"3 strikes, you're out!" casey's at bat with unloaded guns in his mouth.

as the day grows old,
we pave this road.
when we take control,
we will save your soul.

and it burns, just like that famous ring of fire.
sing to inspire, try to loosen up the dirt that clings to the tires.
establish some traction, lingering behind the curtain of satisfaction.
i'm certain of nothing, mr. knew-it-all,
late for my disorientation, fate glued to the wall.
the pain felt could make the brain melt,
heard the shackles on the ankles, mistook the sound as slaybells.
remember that song called big pimpin'?
it made me want to dance around but i had no type of rhythm.
then i thought, i should write a song called sick pimpin',
'cause i know a lot of beautiful psycho inspiteful women.
now i'm that cat that tiptoes on this pads,
with the gauze on track, and so as not to cause damage.
hello miss management, time decision-making process,
trying to catch the breath i couldn't find 'til i lost it.
stand upon a rock i couldn't climb if i tried,
with a fist full of issues, a bag full of pride.
well alright, i'mma write all the problems on the board,
if anyone can answer 'em, i'll let them drive my ford.
i quit searching for the truth 'cause the truth can change,
it all depends on how the furniture's arranged.
if you don't take a moment to sit in the chair,
then there wasn't any point of ever puttin' it here.
and i'm lovin' every minute as the day gets vivid,
while i'm twistin' up the lyrics of existence.
and it goes, "one" for the wife, and "two" for the house,
"three strikes, you're out!"
now please remove my life from your mouth.


Lyrics submitted by exact

Days Grow Old song meanings
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