Heaven’s for Potheads (Invaders Eighty)

Refused to stop; I walked the rot, called for help when I started to melt
Another girl, another talk, I buy, she sells; the head that fell
I’ll see your clock and raise a rock to throw at pictures on a shelf
You’re smoking hot, he’s smoking cock, I’m smoking every fucking thing else

I’m in a car with liberal arts; these essays punch me in the head
I try so hard to get so far with this awful, bitter killer cred
They’re in the stars I’m in a bar with blisters listing A to Z
I’ll play the game with an appropriate name like “Pavement,” “Modern,” or “Inbred.”

A pen in hand’s hand in a jar; just say goodbye to your social life
A pen and man’s man in a car; drive there to wisdom with a knife
For ten of them there’s part of me that’s killed by burning, screaming light
For ten of me there’s one of them all hostage; swallowed by the night

The president wants my blood to ship to secret prisons
He said that it’s so full of chemicals that the stuff, well it’s a prism
For truth and justice and- and – and but more like hate and schism
But it’s all the same at the bottom of the pile or so’s the local wisdom

I sold my soul for a library in my neck for further profit
All buried in a war of an unholy sort
Ezekiel came out with intent to lift
The only antidote I use is spit

The saxophones came so I killed me some
With Carpathian knives and a Boston Gun
Some crackhead said “you can’t do that, son”
So then tell me why the West was won