Sage Francis Lyrics

Album: Unknown

Personal Journalist Lyrics

(spoken)

 Sage Francis...Personal Journalist, 1968 to 2001

 

 (Verse 1)

 He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating Cause

 there still debating over what rhyme skill is

 Sick of waiting for time killers to get over there murder raps

 And then he sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure

 Seek for closure but stayed open minded

 Always seemed to keep composure, peeking over both his eyelids

 Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra violence

 Teaching others how to be more loving with brotherly guidance

 A bleeding soldier knows the science

 He does the math quick and writes without having to think twice

 Without asking for advice, letting the scalps peel

 Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal

 His death mask conceals his face paint

 It feels like a safe place, but it ain't

 Feels like its safety seals faith, but it don't

 He's not a real saint, just another one of those religious political jokes

 And that's not even half of the nutshell

 Cats are compelled to crack open and extract his blood cells

 From, when he comes back from hell again

 He'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton

 

 (over scratching)

 Sage Francis...anti-socialite...secret admirer

 Student loaner...continental drifter...professional day lifter

 Spin doctor...self-referentialist...personal journalist

 

 (bridge)

 Word, its the worthless wordsmiths

 We're conversing with impersonal twists

 Heard the concern with making the Earth ship

 These kid games are silly

 When all art is signed anonymous

 He'll turn that big bang theory into a small pop hypothesis

 

 (spoken)

 Sage Francis...death merchant...1968 to 2001

 Devoted son, father to none

 

 (Verse 2)

 Husband to something soulless

 He didn't spend his life on what we love

 The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove

 His time is up! He's still the type of boy who makes a comeback

 Kill the white noise til the sun's black

 Moonwalk around New York City and get murdered

 By flocks of sheep who square-dance circles inside a box of beats

 The California Dream sequences end quick

 Got to find middle ground in little towns

 That's the Midwest tradista, for something

 Fell for every trick in the book

 So we stop believing, in the long-forgotten Garden of Eden

 Get off the cross! Of course we need the wood to burn in Godless heaving

 Catch him red handed, only if his hands are bleeding

 

 (over scratching)

 Sage Francis...Non-profit...artificially intelligent

 ...of our guardian angel does in life...

 1968 to 2001...it's been a pleasure, it's been a pleasure

 

 Get out my weatherface with all that sunshine

 (Get out my weatherface with all that sunshine)

 Get out my weatherface with all that sunshine

 Get out my weatherface...