Letras
Come April in the states, praise the digging of crates
For Linn Record's Seaside, and remixes of b-sides
Pushy glands, crushed from agently scans
Not one redesign, implied by someone in line
Getting a certificate of authenticity, without me?
I help discerning ears, help me outlive my peers
I'm an intimate commitment, via tangible equipment
My trust, shown through grooves of indigenous dust
But forgive me bud, my bass is buried in mud and save for
My replacement, when rain floods the basement though by your standards
I'd be warmer as a warped performer
My crackles wait to give way, like a Tudor from a Grey
But it's a red book, my successor reads to cook
Sniff its eighty minute burn, from polycarbonate urns
It's so small, and now who wants it at all?
I also can spin, and I'm bigger so I win
Get back over here, and unplug your left ear
Continue, don't let me fight, fight for your right
It makes me glad those perky ears unclad
My disc of hiss from sleeves fermenting pungent piss
Scrape the fat from my griddle, rake the needle from my middle
I'm circling the drain, almost a discontinued enflurane
I refuse to be outmoded, by what lacks lacquered-coated
I seem simple to legitimize with proportions for a frame size
I'm not a gift for a birthday, I am a museum display
Beside the hall of historic boats, I'll fade in heavy smoking coats
Across the gallery of grand
hardcovers, I'll lay while your finger hovers
On public display proves I'm
protected, don't tap my glass you'll be ejected
Who says I want to be in your home, stacked under gauzy monochrome
Noticing properly sleeved tennis
racquets, opposite slipshod 10 inch jackets
Do I not deserve to be at least
alphabetized, is it because I am oversized?
Guess I'll wait 'til you get your act
together, you seem to be under the weather
Like they say at the local diocese, hey you sinner, clean your mess
Oh, you're a pioneer listening to