I'm alive and stark, raving free with only a handful of gravel to suck on for the entire duration of this commercial - free interruption.
We ran and ran until there was nothing left in our legs but sand and bourbon whiskey.
Fuel the ancients,
God of nothing.
Drizzle down the legs of this woman we call America with the glistening scent of her still on our bodies, telling us to rally over her heathen,
jester,
poet,
rogue,
transient,
draft dodger,
misanthrope,
killjoy,
heat seeker,
mofo,
abscessed,
lawless son of a bitch.
We can drag out of whatever hobble they had declared their domain and stand on her teeth
- America's teeth and make the loudest goddamn noise we can before last call because that's considered the hottest band.
The tyranny,
the absolute tyranny,
of being righteous.
I told that son of a bitch twice.
I asked for the Jack and Coke,
not rum and Coke,
not Coke on ice.
Jack and fucking Coke!
And he looks at me all high and proper and says,
"God man, what's the difference?".
I look him square in his ricochet grin and say,
"the hell with you because if you don't know what flavor's your flavor,
then we're not really having this conversation."
And with that, I upended my giant spooling surface, table and ashtray and flew into a legend to have this asshole fucking bartender describing me as,
quote unquote,
'a mad psycho who's really drunk and threw that table at me for no fucking reason babbling about flavors'. Immortalizing a bar myth for wanting a Jack and Coke and proving a point by punctuating with flying furniture.
To each his own, I guess. Go figure.
Is it just me or is irony with its pants up around its ankles throbbing for a break,
a better way,
a reach around,
anything?
We turn and face the bullshit like waves of concrete. That sacrilegious moment before the mindset kicks in and you can't take it anymore and your mouth is the trigger and your brain is loaded and the monster wants to take apart every motherfucker on this planet because they deserve to feel this free.
They don't get it and never will.
So come on you bastards.
I've got the mountains in my bag and a face full of lines,
lies,
and tributes.
Do you want me?
I'm right fucking here.
Away forever if I actually can see a thousand miles. Save your breath because I'm waiting.
Going nowhere but up.
Now back to your life - already in progress.
Silent Type Lyrics performed by Stone Sour are property and copyright of the authors, artists and labels. You should note that Silent Type Lyrics performed by Stone Sour is only provided for educational purposes only and if you like the song you should buy the CD