Winners Take All
Parachute ratty. One bunk chord, now the air is scooped badly. Dripping out the sticks like a twig tweed hammock. Miter cut the cables for that quick, clean transit. Miser tuck the big screen panic near the business card. Ankle out of wack. Painkiller debacle. Scrappy navigate the yellow corn height for the barn when the spot light swivel hard right over the farm. Post up. 3 cheers for the gimp sprint, thank you. Limp to the door, splint what he mangled. Oh yeah, I knew the percentages but the numbers were unaware of the grand finale's emphasis. And over the scent of a thousand dead dogs Agent Zip Zooka swore to pull it off. Game face. Walkie-talkie squawking off his hip regarding paratrooper's 20. Tug a noise box trigger, reporting for hunting.
CHORUS
I have landed safely. I have not received my papers. I have zero natural enemies. I don't know my location. I have no training in reconnaissance, combat or colluding. I'm calling for my orders, over. 'Strap on a helmet and start shooting.'
Clonopin to kill a horse, numb and blood thirsty 'til the 'uncle' spitter beg a jungle pig to hug mercy. Two 40-below shitkickers tickle the corpses. Duck, the widow maker also manufactures orphans. Manufactures ornaments, if it moves stick a fork in it. Winners take all, killers rap all coordinates. Unfortunately courted by the most tenacious guardians whose aimless nature bait a harlequin to taste the martyr skin. No semper fi. No saluter unit, soldier, the fire is more flesh than sulfur. And when the automatic jitters wiggle the ribs, I feel so alive it don't matter which bitches litter is clipped. Sun down, goggle up. Canteen, gobble juice. Tear gas, nozzle up. Brain buff, hostile youth. Chop it up. Lock a noose upon it. You will die for the glory of... shit I can't put my finger on it but it's big. Big and legitimate, justify women and kiddy killer shit; iller it builds. So he is not a natural predator but could dismantle an AK-47, clean and rebuild before you could mayday brethren. Muddy gut, snake eyes. He approaches cobras with an ugly muck and bloody bowie knife clamped in the canines. Wake 'em with that blind military mechanism set to bludgeon. What is your major malfunction
CHORUS
I have landed safely. I have not received my papers. I have zero natural enemies. I don't know my location. I have no training in reconnaissance, combat or colluding. I'm calling for my orders, over. 'Strap on a helmet and start shooting.'
I shimmy up out of the foxhole, disorderly, only after having logged every cadaver accordingly. High scores keep automatons enthralled. There is no cause at all. If his perspective is merked, sneaky detective work is aborted and it's no longer whisper mode on the red alert. No bed of dirt sniper rifle peaking out the bunker. Now I'm center city looking for something to puncture. Help me up the numbers or the hero status suffers, treat the public like a tin can riddled before it plummets, but adrenaline could lead to lazy eye hassles so be missed the little boy inch the pin out the pineapple. That's funny. Bumps into the steel toe. That's lovely. Sum it up in 'hell no'. And just as quick as the parachute cable snipped, I was rag doll horizontal 2 limbs short of fixed. Leak a baby pool around the standard issue weaponry while fading as a blemish in civility's memory, they will step over the body for the looting... strap on a helmet and start shooting.
CHORUS
I have landed safely. I have not received my papers. I have zero natural enemies. I don't know my location. I have no training in reconnaissance, combat or colluding. I'm calling for my orders, over. 'Strap on a helmet and start shooting.'