Name: 'a wry pleasure to be' w/Josef Motley
Duration: 5 min 19 s
Channel: vox_Josef Motley, music_dCABB & J.Motley
Description: "'a wry pleasure to be' w/Josef Motley" is a song by Dennis Cabbernathy presents. you'll rue this day

'a wry pleasure to be' w/Josef Motley

Dennis Cabbernathy presents

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you'll rue this day

Dennis Cabbernathy presents

experimental, lo-fi, hip hop, avant garde, new wave, punk, electronic, folk, acousmatic, psychedelic, progressive, other

this is the dCABB collaboration page. more to come soon... my other sites www.myspace.com/dcsquestfortyre www.soundclick.com/dcabb tracks on this page: _"a wry pleasure to be" vocals by Josef Motley music by dCABB & Motley Josef Motley website www.myspace.com/misterjosefmotley or Swampglow www.myspace.com/swampglow _"i admire your honesty" vocals by Michael Nhat music by dCABB Michael Nhat website www.myspace.com/michaelnhat or www.michaelnhat.com

Song Info

Genre

Hip-Hop • Alternative Hip Hop

Charts

Peak #1,040

Peak in subgenre #105

Author

vox_Josef Motley, music_dCABB & J.Motley

Rights

2007

Uploaded

November 10, 2007

Track Files

MP3

MP3 4.9 MB • 128 kbps • 5:19

Lyrics

i wouldn't piss on myself if i was on fire or stung by a jellyfish i'd just grin and bare it like filed down teeth. saint augustine swept leaves and stole letters from shop signs. the fringe over dog eyes obscuring its view. we breed them for weaknesses that would render them helpless if ever released into the wild. we're doing to dogs what hitler wanted to do to people. and you can't even outrun an arrow like it was deduced a tortoise could. and your burnt effigy bears the vaguest of resemblences, a veritable cornucopia no less. mother says my stomach is shrinking into a knot that my bitten down fingernails are too blunt to undo.

i am cold storage open myth, a sickly grin measuring eight point six on the rictus scale, mollycoddled by the abhorrant gourd a rumbunctious psychotropic.

the acute the astute, the obsolete and obtuse are all your other options in fickle britain it's the little things, the pounds look after themselves. that's where storm clouds are born, to wave a rattle at the iron lung babies in pyrex cases who will spend their entire lives from birth to dirtbed in a breathing machine.

i become the black ice on roads i start a whip-round for myself because suddenly life wasn't about brick walls and money and things. nebulous? my awareness too pliable, endure yourself parasite universe, pack satchel with loaves and fish, what a professional. 7E1F803 this description lives untoward an unworldly and bogged down apprentice, shut up with the fireworks, it's well contro. your game genie's lamp is in need of a polish, run your fingertips across shelves like a figurative mother-in-law testing and tutting at the depth of your dust.

collapsing infrastructures left right and centre:

"if theres an afterlife i hope you saved me a seat"

i'm wasting time overestimating an underachiever, the defendant something inanimate that moves as it should not, pocketed earthworm repeatedly halved or a matchboxed miscellanoupede guile for reasons opaque the requisite components uprooted obligated and unfettered as always the important thing to remember when wearing a proton pack is

NEVER CROSS THE STREAMS TILL YOU'VE NEARLY REACHED THE END OF THE FILM

it's the burgeoning crop circle of your bald spot lighted.

i have blisters on my sprinkling finger eating the matter refusing to compound, i'm incinerating every outfit i've ever done anything incriminating or embarassing in, "just conceptualising here" a handclaps as good as a fingersnap to a deaf man's ear. when i was knee high to a... whatever i thought people had adventures not emotions, i never considered that the glands got involved in this hypnolarious! and ridiculous former empire throwing tea sets into the lavastream that envelops your distant relative of mud hut.

lulled me into a insincere sense of insecurity, slightly long winded, receded, the hole in my hat. the beating in your ribcage deflates too close too gnawed bone, i doubt anyone notices those buried up to neck in sand. i've got to hand it to the blindfolded i really truly envy you in your mirage niche cashback swapping football stickers postal orders this exchange rate is parallel lines in black and white, the barcode battlers are remotely controlled.

to the few gullible enough, you see the majority is suprisingly not quite stupid enough to be really influenced by adverts films games and soap operas you are more like a sitcom and you need your canned laughter ha ha ha.

-but if you asked the, uh, "audience" would they nod or shake their heads, or die of excitement and indecision? at the fact that someone for once cared about their opinion?

slump foward and sink in, please fill in this survey, the dribble on your pillow the nasal crumble of your snore reminds me of scratched non-stick pans and baking rainbow cake to fill up a rainy day on which we're forced to unhappilly acknowledge each other's existence. so it seems we've accepted the numb frigid elderly autonomous and backwards defence,

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