21 Plays
Here’s one I recorded a while ago, but for some reason have never posted. The recording needs a little work, and I need to refine the lyrics a bit. I wrote it after finishing Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I exist in a cloud of emotion that I haven’t quite figured out in any concrete way, but that I can describe endlessly. I think this song is kind of about Ayn Rand and having a better grasp on language than I do of myself.
strung up like sheep on the power wires
we need no philosopher to know our true desires
too small for reason, too quick too indecision
we’ll build the hospital to make the first incision
we are kings
of our own arrival
kill the one who sings
for our own survival
there is art in taking it too far
for a man waiting for the wrong car
home
we’re full of bright ideas
to refer them to committee
killing time with the killers
who illuminate our city
there’s an art to taking it too far
money comes to those wait
John Galt is sitting in a boxcar
waiting to find his way from
we are kings
of our own arrival
kill the one who sings
for our own survival
there’s an art in taking it too far
for a man rusting in a dive bar
alone
I haven’t heard a poem in years
said I to my thief
steal me some affection
from the ones who love so easily
listen to the amplifier hum
subtracting time subtracting memories
of the things that we have done
