This is the song my blog is singing today:
A mere 365 days, 30 posts, and 31,151 hits later, here we are. Can’t compare to the 175,000,273 years that Aceyalone brags about, but hey not bad.
I’ve already taken time to pontificate about questions along the lines of “What does it all mean?”, so I’ll not get into that here. Just put the lyrics here for those who are curious.
Aceyalone:
happy birthday to me
happy earth day to we
I just turned a hundred and seventy five million
two hundred and seventy three
and I’m at my peak
our pick of the week
straight tweaked with a godly type mystique
???? Spock, nanou nanou ???
abort, distortion report on which sort
a quick court, support, cut short
time warp, interplanetary movement
I’ll say, foul play, hey
which way does Willy Wonka stay?
we came to see the chocolate sway
happy birthday to me, to me
hip hip hooray to me, to me
synthetic or prototype
genetical photocopy
Xerox and medical mocks to breakthrough
shocks and shakes you
as Acey takes you
through lyrical masochism
and as I blast the last to give ‘em
dissect, insect, inflict, whoa
destination one-two-oh
ohhhh
‘One hundred and twenty seconds until you die’
When I die, bury me under the gravel
travel fifty feet down, step out and pack me in
I acknowledged(?_ I won’t be back again
now I’m a entity, ex-humanity within
earthly vanities, sunshine and the wind
I suppose, ambrose’ll rose your soul
to give you immortality and infinity skin
but you’re immortal close, you froze
(ah.. he froze)
now your takin’ in a free fall in the end
every draft, breeze, trickle of water, a sound wave
in your perimeter is similar
and behaves as a test to manifest life forms
it forms a warm blunted
heavily budded individual
in the visual eye
cut it, gut it, fry
I am invisible so is it impossible to cry?
nope, soak my pillow case
I wrote a little taste
I’m hopin’ the middle breaks the lies
my objective remains at one with the stainless steel object
still feels the pain
flagrant, nefarious
fragrence of various ages
and chemical compounds compounded
a bouquet, a readily picked array
of dandelions, roses, pointset-i-as
gold marigolds in a vase that’s passed to monks
and kindred, intended, descended
and suspended in mid-air
match amended and I ended on a bad note
put salt in the open wound and I broke