Yeah it feels like cheating death living in these fields of howling apparitions who bear witness to tongues writhing so restless. Well I'm not looking for conviction. I just want an easy way out. I'll tell you all my secrets if you tell me all of yours; preen the plumes to keep the mockingbird's wings bound. Oh mother help us 'cause we're not afraid to die. Oh this was not a war that I was born to fight 'cause I want bright lights and greed. Give me the girls who say money is all I need. An apparatus where the occupants are stored we're painting murals of martyrs made into monolithic statues in our minds. I want the banker's daughter, lets face it ladies and gentlemen: who wouldn't want to drink for free? So give me glamour, these are my years to waste. Give me glamour these are my years to waste. We're an overflowing canvas with far too much paint. Torn and tattered are the lungs that we gasp for. So give me glamour, these are my years to waste. So give me glamour. You know we're in trouble. We're a generation of excess and I'm an epicure with the palate of a man with oil coursing through his veins. Baby, I'm a machine and I've heard the voice of god through all the circuitry. He said, "I'm goddamned proud of your eccentricity. Now here's your podium, your microphone. You'll be the richest prophet hell has ever known." Turn off the TV set, orchestrate the revolt. I'll tell you how angry to be; as chaotic as the seas. I'll teach you how to sleep. I'll teach you how to live. I'll teach you how to fuck. I'll teach you how to breath. Well I've heard the voice of god. It came from inside of me. I've heard the voice of god. It told me how to control the weak. Hoarse is your voice as you sing the chorus of the faithless. This is the end of the individual. This marks the end of you and me. We'll make the history books, become the fiction of their fears. Lets face it, who doesn't want to drink for free? Execute the useless. They're just starving for a horror story. Brush up your Sunday best. The fashions that we follow are better off dead. Yeah, we're better off dead.
from Presents: Mother Tongue
released August 2, 2013
Written and performed by 1876.
Recorded/Engineered by Brandon Wiard at Backseat Productions.
Mixed by Adam Cox at Brooksfield Gentlemen's Club.
Mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music.
all rights reserved