Take me home, off the road to the shore,
Make a home with the poor.
Give us all your spare change, there is no such thing as money here anymore.
I set fire to the trash cans behind the grocery store and I admit it.
I made love to a handsome man from out of town just to cultivate some feeling.
I watch the men in the park watching the pigeons in the park do their feeding.
Take me home, off the road to the shore
Make a home all alone.
Give us all your empty lives, there is no such thing as progress anymore.
Look at this man.
Look at this woman with the diamond ring on her hand.
If we treated love like we treated marriage, there'd be a whole lotta confusion over what marriage meant.
Take me home, off the road to the shore.
Make a home on the floor.
Give us all your honest answers, there are only honest questions left to live for.
ALL CONFLICT, ALL THE TIME
What am I to do with you when broken down at six years old?
With hammers at my throat and visits to the hospital?
Where to go from this?
With trash can fires and swollen upper lops, and only mental institutions and certain poverty to miss?
All conflict, all the time.
And it feels like battle zones tucked into every corner of space.
And if this place begins to resemble Ohio, we'll more on again.
Molotov! Flying at the mayor.
Molotov! Tearin' down the walls. (Hey! Hey!)
Molotov! For the filthy politicians.
Within the hour now, we're takin over city hall.
What a man to never stand back down, nor tolerate the lies.
He didn't wanna piss away his basic human rights.
We asked him to join us, but he didn't wanna fight,
So now he's working for the city for the rest of his life.
We came across a pharmacy with is window busted out.
Pushed on through the broken glass, and had ourselves a look around;
The medicines, that esculent macabre for the mouth.
We quickly filled our pockets with pills of every kind.
All sortsa shit like aspirin that soon colonized our minds
And then we died.
But our rotting corpses lying there soon began to leak and grow these lesions that all smelled just like a rose. And all the blood and guts inside us germinated into timeless pages stained with lines of lovely prose.
EVERYBODY DOES A LITTLE COCKSUCKING
Everybody does a little cocksucking! When the bottle's dry and luck runs thin, we're filled between our teeth. Everybody does a little cocksucking, and even though you had to run away, I still love you anyways.
Plastic splinters in our fingers, razors at our throats,
The cheapest whisky by the pint, the cheapest rags instead of clothes =
The cheapest actions by the score and shallow moans
My daughter, my son, with your HIV blood, and your tar-blackened lungs inside.
Send up a prayer from your thick, fleshy tongues to above.
Heaven be willing, and devils be slow, either take both my children away from me,
Or fatten my stomach off the blood of the working, and the blood of the hopelessly poor.
Away from me, always go far from me.
Fictional flies upon Sudanese lips: Subterfuge.
Separate marrow that spins round within centrifuges.
My son and my daughter, you are cannon fodder for the institution stronger than you.
Send out a warcry, be brave before you die, and sink when the water drowns you.
My daughter, my son, with your HIV blood, and your eyesight and hearing abused.
Fatten my pockets, I will make you iconic, and once you're fine, always confused.
A VARIANT OF MESCALINE
What a face
Lips on fire
Contusions at it's throat
What a man spitting out words in a venomous tone.
Stick him in an unmarked holding tank.
Pay the rail fare, take the subway home.
What a look
Leather in drag
Anachronistic common-minded punk
Belonging to a place that existed once but ceases to exist here anymore.
Stick him in a library with books pressin up against his skin.
Pay the rail fare, take the subway home.
We were on a variant of mescaline, runnin down the highway
Hellhounds on our tails.
Explosions, confusion, cops in passing cop cars
Run him up without bail.
You will not become anybody else.
You will arise.
There is no hope for a blinding experiment,
only hope for a hopeless plunge.
There is no hope for invention in a spiritless land, only hope for a painless gasp.
There is no healthcare for the millions of unhealthy underfed (see: dead), only healthcare for wealthy straight white men.
They took you to the river in October,
When the ground is soft enough to dig a hole.
But the devils did not want you, so they buried you alive.
Now they argue over where to rest your soul.
Broken into pieces by a hammer,
And drowned beneath the river, next to you.
Held under by your daddy's arms in water,
Though I tried and struggled not to suck a lungfull in.
Now I can't wait to meet you down there in the hellfire,
I can't wait to see your pretty face in flames.
But baby, if we get down there, don't fall back into madness.
AN OPEN DOCUMENTATION OF RECENT EVENTS
Who are you? How did you get in our brains?
We hate you. We want you out before the barricades leak and break.
This is a critical juncture at which all trains collide.
There are no nets in here.
There are no gods.
Just bad situations, crates of rot and bone, and loose knots to tie.
Where do you go from here, how do you pop and realign?
Where are you? How did you escape this place?
We love you. We want you stuck with us, encased in chains.
This is a god-forsaken hell that we adore.
In this location, we're all free, because everyone is poor.
There is so much space to build on here, there are no hollow bonds.
Malady, Selcuk, calm condition, no news to televise.
FROM VENEZUELA, WITH LOVE
Waxed and new, an invertebrate too, and a megaphone for a voice.
An electric head, it appears braindead, and a privilege instead of a choice.
American eyes, an American mouth, and he fires an invisible gun.
When connection comes and election lies, then the workers finally strike.
Raise up your guts with your industry.
Staple your possessions to the floor.
I'm sending my affection, Venezuela.
But don't glorify your progress anymore.
Come to me, I am the fun new think machine.
Come to me, I am the only one.
NEW GERMAN LULLABYE
Though you're hung up on the road, don't ever feel like you couldn't come home.
When you're staring down the face of the ghost by the grace of the poison in you, just leave right away, and I will talk to you on the phone.
When you're caught in a very bad dream, don't ever feel like you couldn't come clean. When you're sick to the taste and the weight of the world is a noose around you, just stop right away and lemme tell you I love you the most.
I will send back a note from the depths of a German room.
When you're stuck in a very deep hole, and you're down at the end of the rope. When you're locked in a jail cell, sick from the cold and erased from the new, lemme bail you out and subtract from the weight of the load. And sing lullabies, make you feel like you're not alone.
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The TaxpayersPortland, Oregon
The Taxpayers originated in 2007 in Portland, Oregon. These days they are spread out all over the place. Rob Taxpayer
sings and plays guitar, Noah Taxpayer plays drums, Dylan Taxpayer sings and plays accordion and keyboard, Phil Gobstopper plays bass, Kevin Taxpayer plays trumpet, Alex Saxplayer plays Baritone Saxophone, and Andrew Taxpayer plays Banjo and Guitar....more