60 WPM from Tuning Out by Wicked Bears
What’s Cher’s real name? Do museums have places for overnight employees to sleep? What does it mean to feel like “butt”? At least one of these questions is answered in this stream-of-consciousness mumbler. This is what happens when you’re stuck in traffic for forty five minutes on the way home from work. Listen to this song when it’s 11:00 at night and your boss still won’t let you leave because it’s busy.
Tracklist
| 8. | 60 WPM | 2:22 |
Lyrics
Pull up to the stop line. Stop because it’s a red light. My eyes go blurry and my mind goes dark. I don’t notice when the light turns green, until somebody honks at me. I’m not inebriated, I’m just jaded. Maybe I could change my name to Cherilyn Sarkisian, or maybe Robert Zimmerman. It seems to be available, but then my name would just be Rob. Maybe, if I lived in a museum, I might find a greater sense of purpose (Rush hour day dreaming). I’d wander from exhibit to exhibit, posing as historical figures (Rush hour day dreaming). And then, at night, I’d have an air-conditioned hall and an under-cushioned couch on which I’d slumber. And I would learn all about our ancestors, and plug the leaks that let them out into the world to linger, instead of type type typing sixty words a minute ‘til the bone punctures the skin, and I’m no longer a member of society, yeah I’m just a skeleton. But I’m not changing my name, and I’m not moving away, because neither option helps me escape the inevitable destiny of feeling like butt butt butt butt butt butt butter spread over too much bread from going undercover to justify some shit I said (Rush hour day dreaming). So, it’s back to type type typing sixty words a minute ‘til the bone punctures the skin (Rush hour day dreaming). ‘Til my insides become my outsides, the worms destroy my body, and I win (Rush hour day dreaming).
