Cue The Violins Lyrics

• A few years down hip hop's line walking graveyards of trainers,
• the day the bards slay the fakers then go play hard with the makers.
• Dividing up the airwaves between these break heart entertainers
• and busy clearing out the airways before the snakes start to invade us.
• So upon faders fingers fire fury, from the stages chucking venom.
• While protesters pose for pictures - post sucking lemons.
• And the noise from our silence enough to open fucking heavens
• as we count the sins of our violence and we hope for lucky sevens.
• All the cables line the edges of the patchwork like giant stitches.
• We've been trying to find the control room, crack the password, flick the switches.
• And when the tides rise so high the kerbs are swimming with the fishes,
• you'll find the salt that gets inside all those bites is pretty vicious.
• And we proberly taste delicious when we're not choking on the bones
• while the vastness that surrounds us fills with floating broken poems
• and the distance that astounds us still bespoke with open toes.
• Now the voting booths are closed, that's why we're quoting spoken token drones
• with vocal tones that mirror the sound of wage slips tearing.
• And a stance chosen cos it mimics the crowd and rage we're sharing.
• Strike a pose for all the critics, take a bow in flames we're wearing.
• A set of goggles for when the shit hits, and for when sun's rays are glaring.
• I swear some days i'm raring to take a spanner to the system
• with the kids we raise preparing to take a hammer to the pistons.
• While we talk of those with wisdom, and how we sorely miss them,
• and if we're sick of being pissed on, why don't we raise our falling fists then?!
• On our corrogated brow, as contortions rebel,
• as our fingers bleed agaisnt the walls of the cell,
• we'll keep stating it now from this conformist hell
• that all we really need are the stories we tell.
• I've written prose that would trap fingers to cold plastic desk tops.
• Had change befriending lint, then falling down my leg lots.
• Had a halo, a mohikan, a skin head, even dreadlocks,
• and through every single stage had freedom songs to make my head nod.
• As dead dogs lye outside still standing shattered gates.
• While inside the minds eye just kicks back and laughs at fate.
• I hold the corners of my life in with strips of standard gaffer tape.
• We could be forging fingers fighting but we just use these hands to masterbate,
• procratinate. The last to take steps towards blinding sunshine,
• while the eulogy reads - 'This is for the sad day that the sun died.'
• And the punks share the stories with the fascist he just untied.
• In tortured playlists, reporters read from 'Fashion Tips For Gun Crimes'.
• And sometimes, just sometimes we ditch the screen for fellow marchers.
• And we can all raise up a fist but you can see what a yellow heart does.
• While inky fingers tickle the noses of those that smell the carcass,
• and we run teeth mark roses across the earth that swells; starkers.
• With a pocket full of markers to write on steel bricks and mortar.
• While we're taught to trun cheeks when feeling sick from these reporters,
• while lovers can not sleep for dreams of lovers being tortured,
• and rodents with angry teeth line dead bodies like the chalk does.
• While the streets are getting rawkus with the sounds of vile things
• and the churches ill inform us about the acts of violent kings.
• In the wasteland there before us, on tin can ground a child sings.
• Oh how little it has taught us. Ok - now cue the violins...

Lyrics taken from UndergroundHH, check out our full database of Invokal Lyrics.