A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z #

Jam Baxter

"Confessions of a Wasteman"

[Mr. Key]
I confess I'm a mess and I couldn't care less
With my bare debts, stress, in a sh*t stained vest
Stay fresh, dribble on my p*ss-brain best
On a six-day bender and which way next?
Take steps to breakneck pace of a wasteman
And best to mess with a credit card pay plan
Best assess my receptors debt
Check the wretched stench of my septic breath
Blows so far with my hobo style
Orchestral and polo, low profile
And this stoned broke smile for disgusting commuters
Watching me spew red puss with the mucus
Messed up, head f*cked [we're polluters?]
This is best luck from the crusty and useless
Losers, never win, worse than it's ever been
Working this earth for a burst of adrenaline
Worst of the seven sins, sinful as Simon
Twinging as bright as a twinkling diamond
Glint in my eyes, I'm as p*ssed as a pieman
Fistfuls of crystals from Bristol to Brighton

[Jam Baxter]
Yeah, man
If I ever see the end of this messy week
I'll be spending three
Just collecting these memories up straight
One great heavenly drug haze
I guess they'll get the best of me some day
Remember me, f*ck face?
Come waste your energy, blood drains
Skunk weighs heavier than deafening drum breaks
Up late, are you still considering the colour red?
Sinking the stubble on your chin to your lovers neck?
Why's that? A fine yat to another ex
Fly traps, high rise standards, an other stress
It's the time lapse, loving it to some extent
Nothing left of the summer, wonder where the f*ck it went
None the less dunce, I recover fresh faced
Next day wrecked like freights on express ways
Flailing with dead weight and dead lines
Dead guys wait for the next life, gaze in the head lights
Bathe in a red sky and [to Jams?]
Contraband clogs up my nostril span
So what's the plan?
Cotch til this sombre jam is done
Clocks with hands that spun songs for standard c*nts
Gone like Saxon monks, yeah ain't that a past time?
Part time bar fly barfing my last pint
Laugh, cry, til your lips and your eyes bleed
Spit with a pint and a spliff full of pipe dreams

[Mr. Key]
Pickle-pickle brain prick, Mr. fickle as fate
Inner space day tripper in a blizzard of K
Inner states stay sickening as p*ss in the face
With a tin of Ace, listen its the wizard of waste
And lizards and snakes all play in my flickering flame
sh*tty mistakes are made on a typical day
Cynical mates are made and some sit in and wait
Trying to take all the bullsh*t and strip it away
And isn't it strange? Nah, it's me in the dribbling rain
Plan B til I'm simple and plain
[?] feed on the sh*t in my veins, a match freak
I speak til I'm king of this wasted slag heap
Stampede on your sand beaches like damn leeches
Cheaper than bland features and canned peaches
So thank Jesus for these rank geezers
I catch [?] as my hand seizures with amnesia

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z #

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