Another one of the first songs we wrote for the record. I discinctly remember coming up with the concept for this one in the car with Sentence.
Not too much to give away here. I love the beat that M. Stine crafted. I love both of our verses. In New York now, cigarettes are literally like $15 a pack. I've been quit for two or three years now. Maybe I'll have an occaisonal butt for celebratory or anti-celebratory purposes. But even towards the end I was buying rolling tobacco because the budget hit was too great. Sentence still smokes packs. What an aristocrat, AMIRIGHT?
My internal joke is that in New York pretty soon emphysema will be this century's gout - a disease that implies a certain social standing. Yuk yuk yuk.
We are just trying to capture a feeling here. That "I'm out getting fucked up and things seem to have become evil all around me" feeling. Everyone has those moments, right? My self-destructive tendencies are super strong, so that's an easy wave to ride for me. Or, at least it was, back when I still went out. That's what they don't understand about taxing cigarettes. It don't matter. Sometimes you just need a little bit of death and destruction in your life. You'll pay whatever.
Holy hell. Holy war. I'm never going home no more. Shut the drapes. Close the door. Less ain't more. More is more. That's the scene. You've got some attractive things. I've got some magnet teeth. I'm here and there ain't going back for me.
You got a fur coat. Mink. He got a goatee. Drink. You got a crooked smile. I got some gold teeth. Cheap. You better watch yourself at night if you don't know these streets. We're gonna die but live forever, baby. Don't be freaked.
Matchbooks. Mentholated. Soft pack. 100's. Gotta fill the empty spaces up with stuff when love doesn't. Bad places. Alleways. Black basements. Flashing lights. I'll set the city up in flames to make a magic night. Because I can read your mind. See between the lines. You don't have to speak, so don't tell me nothing. Gotta choke the laughs back. Broke the hashtag. One big joke to God and Country.
God everything's so ugly. Tied to this chair with a six foot bungee. This air's so stuffy. Someone better poke some holes in this room or something.
The happy things in life jingle jingle in your pocket. The fall isn't what kills you. It's only when you stop it. I still feel the bass when they drop it. It echoes in my heart. When I cross the finish line they better bring me back to start. I fuck with the cheap booze. Cheap shoes. Craft beer. New bars. College chicks. See-through. New money. Huge arms. Small hips. Mall trips. Talk shit. It's irrelevant. This Maker's tastes like honeydew. This chick tastes just like peppermint.
My money's long like Sunday night. My dick's hard like chit chat. The pen is mightier than the pistol. My credit card goes click clack. You rock a nicotine patch because you couldn't shake a cough. Kind of like a purple heart. The color purple because you're soft.
Someday I will die and everything will be black. There's no heaven. There's no going back. You can make cigarettes $100 / pack. Whatever. I'm fine with that.« Back to Home