Strange ways coming today
I put a dollar in my pocket and I threw it away
Been a long time since the federal dime
Made a jukebox sound like a mirror in my mind
I need to comb my worries
Fix my thoughts
Throw my hopes like a juggernaut walks
Now let down souls can't feel no rhythm
Sorry entertainers like aerobics victims
Hybrid people light a wooden matchstick
Toxic fumes from the burning plastic
Beats are broken
Bones are spastic
Robots talking with a southern accent
Voodoo curses
Bible tongues
Voices coming from their mangled lungs
Just gimme some grit
Some get down shit
Don't need a good reason to let anything rip
Radio's cold
Soul is infected
God is alone
Hardware defective
Mr. Microphone making all the damage felt
Like a laser manifesto make a mannequin melt
Cos people phone it in like it's unlimited minutes
Going through the motions just to say that they did it
Treadmills running underneath their feet
So they feel like they're going somewhere but they're not
So let's put boots on a warehouse floor
Coming to you like a rope on a chain store
Throwing equipment from a moving van
Grab a microphone like a utility man
Now fix the beat
Now break the rest
Make a kick drum sound like an S.O.S.
Cellphone's dead
Lost in the desert
Eye of the sun is out of its socket
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APPEARS ON:
The Information
PUBLISHED BY:
Plastic Kosmos Music
YEAR RELEASED:
2007
LENGTH:
4:34
REMIX OF:
Cellphone's Dead
WRITTEN BY:
Beck Hansen
ENGINEERED BY:
Renaud Letang
REMIXED BY:
Jamie Lidell
PERFORMERS:
Beck Hansen
Vocals
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