Every place is another place:
something else to commune about.
We take on love/hate relationships
with the places in which we live.
They define us only as we leave them.
New jobs are just new slavery--
but no one lets you call it that.
Renting out time for inadequate dimes.
Well then, what does that make your unpaid internship?
Your New York stare,
it won't help you here.
We don't fucking care
about your new job.
Your apartment,
what you pay for rent,
it's irrelevant to your person.
It's just shit you're sold.
They say, "Go for gold.
You are getting old,
and this world of debt is coming on you."
Drinking and golfing are much the same--
at least the way that I play golf.
I shoot a 75 and get out in time
to pick my friend up from the airport.
Build credit off your credit.
You've got a house you can borrow against.
But don't own it too quickly
cause that makes them nervous.
Paying down debt fucks with the profits.
Your New York stare,
it won't help you here.
We don't fucking care
about your new job.
Your apartment,
what you pay for rent,
it's irrelevant to your person.
It's just shit you're sold.
They say, "Go for gold.
You are getting old,
and this world of debt is coming on you."
I was dressed for success.
I lived life on the run.
In the end I was dead,
but I had so much fun.
supported by 10 fans who also own “Bacardi Torched Children”
This album fucks as hard as dripping and magic but imo feels the most personal and emotional release of the three. It’s weird and frantic but hits
this really interesting balance.
jude