Post by Robin on Jan 21, 2006 20:13:28 GMT -8
I wrote this after listening to Bloc Party, so please forgive the clicheness. I need a lot of criticism on this. It needs a lot of work.
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So here we are again, on a car-ride that I can’t understand.
You say we’re on our way to Eden, but you’re not so sure,
And even though neither of us know exactly where we’re going,
We’re damn determined to get there.
We don’t stop at the lights because the songs are fast,
And you say it’s sinful to break the rhythm, but I think you’re uncertain,
Because you used to always chant “give the finger to the rhythm,”
Along with a litany of “roll down the windows,
I’m feeling trapped.”
You strangle the steering wheel as you change lanes,
As if it’s the old Chink man in front of you driving thirty in a sixty zone,
And I laugh at you around malformed words tumbling from my mouth,
Because I’m singing along to songs that I don’t know by bands that I should know;
My friends blabber about them eternally,
Crisping my mind as easily as men cook bacon,
Frying me up in Hell before my time.
When the radio stops playing music, we make up our own words,
Reciting an abused litany of “We will not be the lost; we will not be the lost;
We will not be the dead boys and girls; we will not float.”
We don’t know what we’re chanting for, because we don’t have anything to live for,
Except for our lives.
Yes, we’re living for our lives, because the car’s out of control; you’re out of control.
No, lieutenant, you’re out of order!
Quit your bellyaching and get this car under control!
And you do, except once you gain control the radio’s off, and you aren’t in the mood for singing,
And come to think of it, neither am I,
Even though I still strain my ears to try and hear a voice that’s left me.
When we finally stop, we aren’t in Eden, we’re at some Hellish midpoint,
Except it isn’t the midpoint, it’s the final destination,
But it’s not half as amazing as a real final destination, because when we get there, I don’t get struck by lightning.
Instead, you kneel down on the cement and present a ring almost as cheap as the car we nearly died in,
And you ask me to be your Lillith.
The funny thing is, I’ll never be your Lillith, because you’re not Lucifer.
You will not be the lost, you are not a dead boy, and you’re not floating. Robert didn’t eat your heart - I did.
I ripped it out and stomped on it with my stilettos and left you dripping at a gas station,
At the final destination.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now approaching our final destination.
Please feel free to break some hearts.
I don’t think about you anymore, only our litany.
“We will not be the lost; we will not be the lost; we will not be the dead boys and girls; we will not float.”
It plays like a broken record in my mind, because maybe that’s all my mind is now.
A broken record player, playing a tattered tape loop of your face in the car,
Your broken radio silent, your lips singing and smiling at the same tame.
-----------
So here we are again, on a car-ride that I can’t understand.
You say we’re on our way to Eden, but you’re not so sure,
And even though neither of us know exactly where we’re going,
We’re damn determined to get there.
We don’t stop at the lights because the songs are fast,
And you say it’s sinful to break the rhythm, but I think you’re uncertain,
Because you used to always chant “give the finger to the rhythm,”
Along with a litany of “roll down the windows,
I’m feeling trapped.”
You strangle the steering wheel as you change lanes,
As if it’s the old Chink man in front of you driving thirty in a sixty zone,
And I laugh at you around malformed words tumbling from my mouth,
Because I’m singing along to songs that I don’t know by bands that I should know;
My friends blabber about them eternally,
Crisping my mind as easily as men cook bacon,
Frying me up in Hell before my time.
When the radio stops playing music, we make up our own words,
Reciting an abused litany of “We will not be the lost; we will not be the lost;
We will not be the dead boys and girls; we will not float.”
We don’t know what we’re chanting for, because we don’t have anything to live for,
Except for our lives.
Yes, we’re living for our lives, because the car’s out of control; you’re out of control.
No, lieutenant, you’re out of order!
Quit your bellyaching and get this car under control!
And you do, except once you gain control the radio’s off, and you aren’t in the mood for singing,
And come to think of it, neither am I,
Even though I still strain my ears to try and hear a voice that’s left me.
When we finally stop, we aren’t in Eden, we’re at some Hellish midpoint,
Except it isn’t the midpoint, it’s the final destination,
But it’s not half as amazing as a real final destination, because when we get there, I don’t get struck by lightning.
Instead, you kneel down on the cement and present a ring almost as cheap as the car we nearly died in,
And you ask me to be your Lillith.
The funny thing is, I’ll never be your Lillith, because you’re not Lucifer.
You will not be the lost, you are not a dead boy, and you’re not floating. Robert didn’t eat your heart - I did.
I ripped it out and stomped on it with my stilettos and left you dripping at a gas station,
At the final destination.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now approaching our final destination.
Please feel free to break some hearts.
I don’t think about you anymore, only our litany.
“We will not be the lost; we will not be the lost; we will not be the dead boys and girls; we will not float.”
It plays like a broken record in my mind, because maybe that’s all my mind is now.
A broken record player, playing a tattered tape loop of your face in the car,
Your broken radio silent, your lips singing and smiling at the same tame.
