Fireworks die in the midnight sky on January the 5th. Boy turns six, on January the 5th.
Stories are told that never get old, keep flapping ya’ jack, behind my back, while I cruise down the track, never cut me slack, just stab my back, cuz backs are softer, Right?
Never see the car coming till it flashes the head-light?
Glorified when only in the mid-night?
Immune to the sun, Right?
We’re nocturnal, Right?
I’ll be ya friend if you pack a bottle of beer. It’s the only way we’ll get accepted here. Right?
Only friends in the mid-night?
Strangers in the sun-light? Right?
January the 5th had been a myth. January the 5th had been a myth. The 5th was a myth, when we locked lips, out of in-stincs, caught in the myth that is love. So I say FUNC to all this TION, cuz they all serve one func-tion, right? Never see the car coming till it flashes the head-light?
So I say FUNC to all this TION. What’s the func-tion of life if it hurts me, and hurts you. To cut short all the things you wanna do. You can funk up the hair-do, but the real beauty lies inside you, You can funk up the do if its function is define the real you right?
But the real you is a myth. Fact is what you conceal inside. What your soul reveals only in the mid-night, right?
The real you is a myth. The fact is what you keep hidden. But it’s FORBIDDEN, it’s FORBIDDEN, so I say funk to all this ish! When once I was groovin’ to a funk-ish sound. It’s FORBBIDDEN, it’s FORBIDDEN, heck to life I say good riddens!
Keep flapping ya jack, behind my back, cuz once I cruise down the track, I leave you behind, right? When we locked lips, out of instincs, I sang like IN-Sync, But never stopped to think I was practicing a myth. I believed a myth. I practiced a myth on January the 5th.
Fireworks die in the midnight sky. Boy turns six on January the 5th.
It’s the end of the beginnin’. Satanists pray and priests start sinnin’. Toss it vise versa in the lime-light? Cuz everyone here’s a fake right? Jan fifth. I was Janet, fading behind the Jackson five, Right? Never see society coming till it flashes the head-light? Cuz the prosaic hang left, and the Clyde’s swagger right. But what happens in the middle, misfits gather in the middle right? Never see society coming till it flashes the head-light?
We were swindled to the middle, played like fiddles to be riddled. My head’s light from writing all these lines. Guess it’s what I get for pouring out my soul, head-light, Right?
We were swindled to the middle played like fiddles to be riddled, swindled into living in the middle. Riddled to be fiddled. Fiddled to be riddled. Swindled by the swindler. The swindler.