Going Mad As The Street Bins

You know, it’s easy to look back on days
Like a dustbin’s cluttered centre
The placenta of the city on the run

I went to mass, and I asked them, how?
And the priest just told me, no!
You’ve got mind enough, if you’ve mind enough to moan

Lady beckett and her horseless crew
Arrive with swords all risen
While I’ve wasted half my youth on being hungry

And I just don’t know who to blame
‘Cause I'm as bad as any other
And God, the father, won’t even send me a lover
And Jesus was a miffty kind of mother

I'm bombarded with all types of lies
I have to juggle paranoia
Then I'm made to feel some way about the outcome

And it seems a leader’s only good
In the wake of hindsight’s plain
Then we’ll see how well a man can do without one

That’s why we cast our father’s eye
In the ditch with all deception
And prefer the tongue of hell under the covers
And why Jesus was a miffty kind of mother
But even he won’t hear me out

I hear j dilla on the boom-bap beats
While masters pass me by
There’re far too many albums to get them down you

But who’s got time to listen when
We’re all possums to the slaughter
Who’ve built a flex to dodge all types of danger

And an idea’s the most disarming thing
When you’re used to the old motions
But time will wear you down like wine I wager

And all this comes in many forms
The Sun, the sea, the father
Who had a switchblade to the neck of his own daughter
And Jesus, who’s a miffty kind of mother