Dreams schemes and memory streams.
Wax or wane ebbs the flow of one
Who feels a striped strain.
The snag-drag claws of unseen creatures.
The glad-wrack look of many features
Snug as a bug in an imaginary rug.
Knotted and blotted like mind and matter
From the invisible whispers and natter.
Veritable other lives her places
Where there's a scalp gilded bright
Beneath clouds of moon midges
Flavoured with latte summer and insanity.
Dripping unbridled profanity
Into the white-knuckle grip
Of a frightened boy
Lost on a rainy day
Who would never say .
The essence of life stolen by murdered sobriety.
The unknown whose seeds are sown in lonely places
And dark spaces......
Where stoats in white coats with a choice of voice and
A voice of choice Degrade and demean in
Their hunt for wounds unseen.
Hail the cornflake-packet professors
The bar-stool confessors
Those incubator motivators
With their skin worn tight
Waxing lyrical on the lyre
Made of razor wire That cuts
To the chase of a world filled
With sentient parodies
How many sleeps left? Just one
Under the blue-green sun she'd said
Knelt by my bed her there-there tone
Making fear impossible the way mothers can.
Unless I blew my own trumpet
Of king of the hill
Then its eyes wide and child imbibes
A shot of hot burning blush of Point to flush of a sinner caught
Manner taught but not well enough.
the BUTTERFLY GHOSTS - Dreames, Schemes, and memorry streams Lyrics
the BUTTERFLY GHOSTS - Dreames, Schemes, and memorry streams Lyrics
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English
Dreams schemes and memory streams.
Wax or wane ebbs the flow of one
Who feels a striped strain.
The snag-drag claws of unseen creatures.
The glad-wrack look of many features
Snug as a bug in an imaginary rug.
Knotted and blotted like mind and matter
From the invisible whispers and natter.
Veritable other lives her places
Where there's a scalp gilded bright
Beneath clouds of moon midges
Flavoured with latte summer and insanity.
Dripping unbridled profanity
Into the white-knuckle grip
Of a frightened boy
Lost on a rainy day
Who would never say .
The essence of life stolen by murdered sobriety.
The unknown whose seeds are sown in lonely places
And dark spaces......
Where stoats in white coats with a choice of voice and
A voice of choice Degrade and demean in
Their hunt for wounds unseen.
Hail the cornflake-packet professors
The bar-stool confessors
Those incubator motivators
With their skin worn tight
Waxing lyrical on the lyre
Made of razor wire That cuts
To the chase of a world filled
With sentient parodies
How many sleeps left? Just one
Under the blue-green sun she'd said
Knelt by my bed her there-there tone
Making fear impossible the way mothers can.
Unless I blew my own trumpet
Of king of the hill
Then its eyes wide and child imbibes
A shot of hot burning blush of Point to flush of a sinner caught
Manner taught but not well enough.
Wax or wane ebbs the flow of one
Who feels a striped strain.
The snag-drag claws of unseen creatures.
The glad-wrack look of many features
Snug as a bug in an imaginary rug.
Knotted and blotted like mind and matter
From the invisible whispers and natter.
Veritable other lives her places
Where there's a scalp gilded bright
Beneath clouds of moon midges
Flavoured with latte summer and insanity.
Dripping unbridled profanity
Into the white-knuckle grip
Of a frightened boy
Lost on a rainy day
Who would never say .
The essence of life stolen by murdered sobriety.
The unknown whose seeds are sown in lonely places
And dark spaces......
Where stoats in white coats with a choice of voice and
A voice of choice Degrade and demean in
Their hunt for wounds unseen.
Hail the cornflake-packet professors
The bar-stool confessors
Those incubator motivators
With their skin worn tight
Waxing lyrical on the lyre
Made of razor wire That cuts
To the chase of a world filled
With sentient parodies
How many sleeps left? Just one
Under the blue-green sun she'd said
Knelt by my bed her there-there tone
Making fear impossible the way mothers can.
Unless I blew my own trumpet
Of king of the hill
Then its eyes wide and child imbibes
A shot of hot burning blush of Point to flush of a sinner caught
Manner taught but not well enough.
Writer: Nigel Smith
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid