Saturn Missiles Lyrics & Chords By Aesop Rock
[NOTE: These are the official lyrics from the Skelethon booklet, please do not change them. Thank you!]
If you step on the lawn I keep the foot, peep, in the pot go 6 degrees of cooked greese, boiling, blitz the beach of mushed peas, over 10 meat hooks with a blister each, I'm all pincher, fever-y hoodie on, hoodie off, sweat thru his e.t. sheets to the worry dolls, never met a quiet storm that didn't grow into a choir of colliding horns that go click click clack, in territorial syntax, sitting on the porch with his lids pinned back, pinball wiz in a thimble of sims, I'm a symbol of whimsy abridged, kiss me i'm dead, nursing a mystery dayquil, led zep staring daggers down page mill, how pray tell do he sit pretty when the ol' 1 2 unglue in a tizzy, please hold for the don't play dull boy, click, i am not a page or a pull toy, came in the door and the floor is lava, killjoy if your core more Normal Rockwell, born home sick for an invisible address, bat shit, humble and bat around catnip, one black heart katamari massive, packed in a fat category 5 rat nest, nose on his sleeve, holes in his inner peace, robot phone like a tentacle of flippancy, hate you, hate you more, no I hate you infity, and Pangaea break into smithereens, interlude prest-o change-o, if it move too quickly oh whey oh, right brain go white train Ramo, moustache any old Monet, "no!"
Merrily merrily merrily merrily, in a cobweb tomb on a hotbed of heresy, frog men schooled by the god Ed Emberly, pull dog sleds and exhume Dead Kennedys, bet,, moth into kerosene awful, a caution to straw men lost on vaudeville, a-morally mixing business with 144 dixie whistlers, lawn chair, strong man twisted whiskers, nascar bic in his missing fingers, outcast from a system of kiss-the-ring-ers, are you privy to the misadventures, it's electric, meeting in the middle of the street, with a lethally modified piccolo pete, there is admittedly an incredible mystique, to meddling in the reason a city won't sleep, 48 strings of 12, that ring ring ring, whiz bang, jingle bells, and melt bootleg G.I. Joes, to black taffy, classic, fire in the hole backdrafting,fold wild life out of wolf pack wrapping, full moon, bad knee, wool hat, caffeine, TNT plunger in all caps ACME, blast off half of the whole damn mapscreen, no sling no spear, i'm a patchwork of 86'd springs and gears, who been stung by an un-linked pinky swear, during his what-in-the-fuck-was-i-thinking years, maybe an awkward phase, like his acne and sophomore fade, played, calling all out-of- work action figures, it was death by saturn missiles.
