You look like you were charmed out of a basket, slack jaws clap straw homes, hit the piggy in the clapper claw zone, each here little Isaac Asimov, actually down an accurately whack-a-mole and get the taxidermy cataloged, with or without this bag of bones on my back, I’ll be honest, to let a dog eat the map, still agree to bleed a birthstone, even if alerted to the dirt throne, freely by your tentacles squeezing into a turncoat, yikes, inertia days and vertigo nights, it’s when a batch of falling gavels blur the vertical stripes, you ain’t a leader among, you’re a bottom feeder eating his young, we’ll see who’s teething when the beef is expunged, unless it shrivels up around us in the caving wake of daylight, but more likely you slither off into the closest drainpipe, miffed, other insiders are finding solace thought it wasn’t ever in our quarters hoarding shiny objects, degree in beeswax never personal, which by the way has grown exponentially indiscernible, behind a picture in the wall or at the local pissing hole, where desperate images sully every second an empty coat, I’m gonna guess you probably know everything I could ever tell you plus a tiny bit more, that’s what you’re for, and you never met a button that you ain’t push or a sucker that you ain’t mush or a mother fucking butcher.

The butcher
The cleavers know exactly where to push it
The butcher, the butcher, the butcher knife

One out of focus through the handlers, answer to the hammerheads that came from under the scrambler box, swam off with a plaque for mounting antlers on, outpost scanners over yellow desert peppered with cow skulls and cameras, down fall the phantoms, and a tail drawn long by a crown full of off road canvas, you should see the cough puff annex, hit me up when your lullabies are peaking, for the suck you by the phone over a good commandment breaching art sleeping, 25A, feeder full of chicks on horseback, Sailor Moon roof spewing horn hats, born to corner any harrowing defector, vector, through a delicate series of tech gestures, check, hood on my hair foot on my neck food in my trough, stewing the nuances of hooligan law, ran reds like a prompt gazelle, priced to sell because these window silk pods don’t heist themselves, from the tucker, home of the dozen bee sting summer, don’t let them see your gills blushing seaweed color, chum, this little medium is dominant social predator fund, it’s really grown folks coming undone, but um, I’m gonna guess you probably thought this all before me but a veteran for the morally few, that’s what you do, and you never met a button that you ain’t push, or a sucker that you ain’t mush, or a mother fucking butcher.

Lyrics submitted by Whittingham

BOSICO song meanings
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