Boöotstrapz

by Jonathan Wood Vincent

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04:10
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01:50

credits

released September 30, 2014

tags

license

all rights reserved
Track Name: All Talk, No Action
You buy yourself some guns and a full body bullet proof suit,
A van filled with explosives hidden under cardboard boxes of fruit.
And with a remote control device to command as you sit in a safe location
You direct the van through the doors of the lobby of the central police station.
A few thousand feet away, in a blue sedan, you try to work the detonator
The cops are swarming, they use the stairs cause you've broken their elevator .
The ripe fruits drip onto the wires and the bomb ticks but doesn't explode.
And the cops eat the bananas as you drive away listening to the radio
Where they talk about the dying dollar and the coming planetary ruin
And the killing of everyone by all the people who don't know what they're doing.
They say:

All talk no action
All talk no action
Got a problem?
Do something about it.
Too many people taking
Not enough leaving
Not enough shaking

Oh what have I done? Where am I now?
I'm standing alone in a bathroom stall.
My pants are down and my hands are small
What have I done?
Where will I go?
Why don't I know?
Why didn't I just stay home and
watch myself on video

You walk into a beauty salon, gathering all the women there in threes,
You sort them by their hair color and and you buzz and dance like a honey bee.
You take off your mask and drink some water, show them mercy and leave,
The women all call you a fool, but you don't hear cause you're out on the street
Then, realizing that you had shown them your face, you come back to kill them all,
But your gun fails and your rifle recoils and the shot thuds through a wall .

And then you stagger into a Bingo game at a tired retirement home.
The caller drones out the letter numbers through a moldy microphone.
You demand a sandwich from a sad young worker who makes no notice or fuss.
And you upset the game but no one responds and so you eat and leave in disgust.

And you go to the local bank and you ask them, "anybody wanna play funny?"
You threaten you're gonna slit some throats and so the tellers give you all the money.
Then you exchange the money for the fake cash you have stashed in a bag in your car.
And in front of the bank workers, in a garbage can, you light the fake bag on fire
"Your money means nothing! " you say. And you drive away with the fortune.
On the radio they talk about you, but the station cracks with distortion
And you nod your head And you nod your head And you nod your head and say:

All talk no action
All talk no action
Got a problem?
Do something about it.
Too many people taking
Not enough leaving
Not enough shaking

Oh what have I done? Where am I now?
I'm standing alone in a bathroom stall.
My pants are down and my hands are small
What have I done?
Where will I go?
Why don't I know?
Why didn't I just stay home and
watch myself on video
Track Name: Power of the Bag
Your head climbs round on her neck side
And slips into her ear,
she saddles your back
fits wheels within your folds
plants grass and tree seeds inside your bowls.

When your leg has grown so long she holds it on with tongs.
pours water through your lungs,
you get a new goo bun
when she's gone unspun

She's got the power of the bag, all the city bows in drag.
She's like a hooked up swing set in the back that plays cymbals and drums real fast.
And on her front stoop gate go boo birds up sticking out of plates with copper feather second hand hoop skirts and out of them all flow cool clothes for the poor,
But ever since you smelled the soap roads you have a 14year old green garden hose in your hand and you like to make it twist and bend

She's shoveling out shirts from your mouth,
they're all tongue tied to the operating table pointing out your face's mess,
you swallowed down your mouth apple bell with play mobile and unpopped babble,
read out loud from a whole board of scrabble

(Ab)She's a spider on a fly unzipped on your (B)phone placed gently on your back you yell at the (Eb)dog and cry for the door upset online she screams your name oh man they say when you have nothing more to give it's hard for a mother so hard for a mother maybe you have a secret brother or two or more summers here now you know she takes another year down in a war zone you got to sing slow sounds in the undertowns of Idaho, so you got a home I know, put it in oh oh I have a lot of yeah yeah..you know

She's got the power of the bag, all the city bows in drag. She's like a hooked up swing set in the back that plays cymbals and drums real fast.
And on her front stoop gate go boo birds up sticking out of plates with copper feather second hand hoop skirts and out of them all flow cool clothes for the poor,
But ever since you smelled the soap roads you have a 14year old green garden hose in your hand and you like to make it twist

And then you glance at her hand as she towels off the water on each finger a ring with a mirror to some slaughter. You've got no kites, nothing but a tutu, nothing for a fight, nothing you can do, but she's got the porns of all the big horn gurus and the manes of the horses and torques of the turn stools, and the machines of the future when the radioactive symbols tick like ancient hieroglyphics, you won't know how high the cliff is when it comes out to show, she dresses it up in nuclear donut.

Cause she's got the power of the bag like I don't know how
Among all the people she gets a perfect score

She's got the power of the bag like I don't know
Among all the people she gets a perfect score
Yeah, she's got the power of the bag
All the city bows in drag
She's like a hooked up swing set in the back that plays cymbals and drums real fast.

And on her front stoop gate go boo birds up sticking out of plates with copper feather second hand hoop skirts and out of them all flow cool clothes

Yeah, she's got the power of the bag
All the city bows in drag
Everybody's gonna be real glad
She's got the big old world up in her bag.


It's a big old world up in her bag


a big world all up in her bag
Track Name: The Rich They Are The Most Sick People In All The World
The rich, they are the most sick people in all the world:
the most oppressed, the most suffering, the most killed, the most controlled, the most bleeding.

They are so tired; they just want friends. They want community. They want a life without impunity. They want time to be free to make art and play music

And to be free from the demands of their parents and the plans of their countries and the pains in their bodies. Free to learn languages and hobbies and to decide what their job is and if they want one. Yeah, the rich, they are the most sick people in all the world.

They want the good but all around it looks so bad and everybody wants the things they have. It's just madness. They want to fall in love like everybody else does without looks or books or charts or cameras invading their lives

So let them live like they'd like and how and with whom and where and when without limitations to or expectations or diagnoses or judgments regarding their experience. Because the world is a majestic kingdom of surprises just waiting for our wits to grow so much sharper. And the needle breaks the skin and the string ties us to it but we all make it so much harder. And the rich, they are the most sick people in all the world.

They've got to count their blessings every day.
They've got to be so big they cannot fail.
It's not easy. It's not easy.
Every time I look at you I see the sun in my eyes. The sun in my eyes.