The song lyrics were written by the band Van Halen, as they were asked to write a song for the 1979 movie "Over the Edge" starring Matt Dillon. The movie (and the lyrics, although more obliquely) are about bored, rebellious youth with nothing better to do than get into trouble. If you see the movie, these lyrics will make more sense. It's a great movie if you grew up in the 70s/80s you'll definitely remember some of these characters from your own life. Fun fact, after writing the song, Van Halen decided not to let the movie use it.
In the middle of a bad dream, I ask whoever is filming not to stop
I don’t know what a nightmare is called when I’m napping during the day or if I’m awake
but I’m guessing it’s really all the same
I enter this hole of self-pity which is really housing another hole of self-loathing
which reveals itself as a sea of utter contempt and I am now floating
The closest I came to knowing God was being caught in a rowing shell in the Fox River during a wicked storm
I looked into God’s eyes and they were gray like my favorite woolen sweater that was thrice worn and thrifted
I guess at heart I’m a materialist
People often ask me what it’s like to fly the coop
Butting ornithologists are weary of tired analogies
I want to be a writer
If given the chance, I would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss her
and another for the all-seeing eye of her big sister
Rain drops smooched my hair soft
Your kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoft
I’ve never worn a tie that didn’t come from the thrift store
Before I was a vegetarian I should have fished more
I wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than here
My spidey sense tingles whenever Eddie Vedder is near
I’ve never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineating
I’ve never really wanted to be remembered
When Robert died, I was in a bookstore that wasn’t born yet and all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroes
Dust, dust, dust...
Dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterday
Dust on the tombs of the heroes of today
Dust, dust, dust...
I miss you...
Do you like your rap songs sung by a prettier gent who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?
I’ll fade into oblivion when my prophecy’s spent in a Megaplex guessing where my office copies were lent
Now I never was ever the best break dancer and you’ll never hear my name on your CB police scanner
But I can hoist my Braveheart-esque banner to the moon and create much havoc in a small-town college kids room
Hip-hop’s grand prize is a following of nasty MILFs who under-stitch their lonely son’s eagle scout quilts
Which explains how the lat is so passive aggressive and hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressive
One breath...
I was farmed from my similarity to a Duracell battery and quickly abandoned at a calculator factory
I’m no wizard of Waverly, but I wear secondhand goods like they were made for me
I went to school to become a philosopher but dropped out to be a sober Kid Cudi impostor
With a spoon that’s porous I’ll lounge in Siberia dining on borshlic borus
My mind has the drive of an old Ford Taurus, unfortunately my mind is no roads, it’s just a forest
Rap’s Kurt Vonnegut blurb font said
For you I would cross the infinite sea of midpoints and eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger joint
When we’re old, please call me if you crack your disc joint
I might be busy keeping these rhymes on point
Catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of Byzantine
I said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of Byzantine
I’m an old man eating Zatarain’s with cataracts, worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking caps
A trip to the restroom can last me a couple hours
I remember when folks thought MC’s had divine powers
Pretending we were word wizards and conjurers
TV told us we were murderers on the lamb from their officers
In many ways I’m as cultured as the mere historian
Told a young man at the bus stop and he said I was boring him
Now I’m at the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home cutting out hearts from the same cardboard I danced upon
I couldn’t possibly put to words how depressed I am
Every week I look forward to hearing the funkmaster’s jam
I made some notes for what else I can blab about
The other night I told my bednurse I was swagged out
She put me in my place fast responding, “but why can’t you wipe your own ass?”
Damn...
I don’t know what a nightmare is called when I’m napping during the day or if I’m awake
but I’m guessing it’s really all the same
I enter this hole of self-pity which is really housing another hole of self-loathing
which reveals itself as a sea of utter contempt and I am now floating
The closest I came to knowing God was being caught in a rowing shell in the Fox River during a wicked storm
I looked into God’s eyes and they were gray like my favorite woolen sweater that was thrice worn and thrifted
I guess at heart I’m a materialist
People often ask me what it’s like to fly the coop
Butting ornithologists are weary of tired analogies
I want to be a writer
If given the chance, I would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss her
and another for the all-seeing eye of her big sister
Rain drops smooched my hair soft
Your kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoft
I’ve never worn a tie that didn’t come from the thrift store
Before I was a vegetarian I should have fished more
I wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than here
My spidey sense tingles whenever Eddie Vedder is near
I’ve never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineating
I’ve never really wanted to be remembered
When Robert died, I was in a bookstore that wasn’t born yet and all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroes
Dust, dust, dust...
Dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterday
Dust on the tombs of the heroes of today
Dust, dust, dust...
I miss you...
Do you like your rap songs sung by a prettier gent who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?
I’ll fade into oblivion when my prophecy’s spent in a Megaplex guessing where my office copies were lent
Now I never was ever the best break dancer and you’ll never hear my name on your CB police scanner
But I can hoist my Braveheart-esque banner to the moon and create much havoc in a small-town college kids room
Hip-hop’s grand prize is a following of nasty MILFs who under-stitch their lonely son’s eagle scout quilts
Which explains how the lat is so passive aggressive and hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressive
One breath...
I was farmed from my similarity to a Duracell battery and quickly abandoned at a calculator factory
I’m no wizard of Waverly, but I wear secondhand goods like they were made for me
I went to school to become a philosopher but dropped out to be a sober Kid Cudi impostor
With a spoon that’s porous I’ll lounge in Siberia dining on borshlic borus
My mind has the drive of an old Ford Taurus, unfortunately my mind is no roads, it’s just a forest
Rap’s Kurt Vonnegut blurb font said
For you I would cross the infinite sea of midpoints and eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger joint
When we’re old, please call me if you crack your disc joint
I might be busy keeping these rhymes on point
Catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of Byzantine
I said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of Byzantine
I’m an old man eating Zatarain’s with cataracts, worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking caps
A trip to the restroom can last me a couple hours
I remember when folks thought MC’s had divine powers
Pretending we were word wizards and conjurers
TV told us we were murderers on the lamb from their officers
In many ways I’m as cultured as the mere historian
Told a young man at the bus stop and he said I was boring him
Now I’m at the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home cutting out hearts from the same cardboard I danced upon
I couldn’t possibly put to words how depressed I am
Every week I look forward to hearing the funkmaster’s jam
I made some notes for what else I can blab about
The other night I told my bednurse I was swagged out
She put me in my place fast responding, “but why can’t you wipe your own ass?”
Damn...
Lyrics submitted by themachine
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