It's Them Lyrics

Themselves It's Them

it's them with their babyfeet, hummingbirds and milky
ways...
it's them, horde your sea shells and blow out the big
whick...it's them...it's them...

no not your vitamins, or pillow or monicle...
this one's just rightousness half full and logical...
meanwell remote absolute and...nowhere to go
but onward and upward clasp crowns ground the heart...
let transmission commence...hello...goodbye dark...

really i wonder is this all material...
this can't be heaven, the light is too dull....
the first time i spoke must have been...

it doesn't look like an ice sculpture...or does it...
if i really payed attention time would move faster and
faster.
landscapes and states of nature would gallop and sink
before me
'til all was still and an orchid...one instant...
one rich white bursting orchid
stood in channels and the rivers deep below beauty...

grimace. flee. souls don't need shelter...

native well knowledge radiating through shone...what's
scared smell sight
a swimming prizm's gray core...which one will erect a
definition
for sheer bliss and set its sembelence sincere and
object with pride down gently
before a globe of judge and grudge in open forum...i
think...
no one...hundreds of thousands of chattering silver
faced monkeys screech
and find them fascinating...
although nowhere to be found on the periphery of...
some generation...huh...i'm not familiar with the
term...

boiled to a crack...happy now...
who'll be bird in hand...
i've been mutilated trying...
teaching myself preference, technique and
acceptability...
it seems your son is of consumed...
boiled to a crack...

what do you mean there's no oar...
all the rations...
sound the alarm, there must be a stowaway...

a drip, bore, a crack and a trickle, soon the hull
gathered its body
and they all drown to meet with a grin, stick and
hankerchief
amid the flowering dust of the crossroads...

don't peter out on me now...thrust your fist into the
sunset...

texture within the footprints and an end atop the
wind...
i feel leaflike...something something to crawl on
sunlit small, a wren beneath the soil presence beyond
walls...
art is everywhere...i refuse to know where..i wonder to
know where art is...
everywhere i wonder to know where art is...everywhere i
wonder...

next time i'm bored, the man's going down
i'll stomp on anyone's brownbag and lunch...when
they're not looking.
it's not actually bad rap...i just don't feel
it...there i said it...

it's them with their tree stumps, cat litter and clay
masks...
it's them, finish your last thought and man the battle
packs...it's them...it's them...

oh don't say help...she's crying in her salve of scary
monsters don't exist
and blood and guts and little broken bits of
love...just don't say it...
all gather as the greatness in her glory days and
softened lovely rays
can't hold back and pour...please don't...she wales
for...help...
orants in pain...pity the stick figures are bold proud
faint...fainter...
trapped on paper drawn to where babies come from...we
think...
can't figure out the gist of setting a prescedent since
shux...
the sacrosanct and such has ran and hid inhibited
shocked and implanted
in limited...prohibited...it's them...them...
it's all a game the fair and right have petered out...
production was always paramount...and what have we done
to deserve this...
why evolve of course....fruit pickers learned to
heard...
and now the butcher's got mechanical pencils...just
leave the children...
stab...process...preserve...pack...anything but the
children...
tear...portion...chop...self...they spared no one...
we're giving selves to records for the tots and
toddlers
not to gorge our fantasies and super-human fetishes...
if you give the strangers baby toys, the entertainment
and enjoyment
they receive will read and write and return itself
ten fold to watch your kids and cloth your loved ones
in a crystal ball of faith renewed and fertile bed...

help...someone page the god...
help...is there a poet in the house...
help...i'm afraid we'll have to innovate...
help...i can't bring her back to life alone...

and there between the timid yellow voice of my candle
and the space in my little notebook she left this form
and i saw
her dust in the light's angles and heard...

you there...young man...my metamorphasis...your
efforts...
that's all natural...just learn from virtue...
keep them...perpetuate your fortune...in both worlds...
give and give and give...
there's nothing wrong with gardens...
and in everyone's preserve...truth is truth...
both perfect and realistic...
you know when energy is flowing...
smile...teach yourself to write...and let them by the
album...
thanks...