Текст песни Untitled #12

Blood on your head in catastrophes, icicles,
No one's fed in cycles led by cycle dead
Asked to shine the flag
Loves his distant town
Blue scents like apples bites
And flows through our hands
I said hi to a man who shot his sister
Ran through the station
And jumped in front of a train
Should have looked
Confused to meet you
Well, that's what scissors do to a day
So their smile paves the way
And sand drifts with waves
And clouds my head
Cuz I'm a fortune fella's dead
And I'm the tunes played by the goons
Who ride to fare his wounds
And stole the road the other way
And sold tomorrow to yesterday
And I know the feeling of pushing you
Out of a building
Tiny people pulsating
Hit the sky
But still the ground got up and whacked your face
You expected to fly
Wind up your misfortunes
Sling 'em to a maitre d'John Frusciante - Untitled #12 - http://ru.motolyrics.com/john-frusciante/untitled-number-12-lyrics.html
Who wears dead butterflies on his face
And is hoping to grow wings
He really wants to tell you, hey
Give your tears to today
Grind yourself souvenirs into your stolen years
Under your pocket
Your hands getting numb
In and urban blind slide.
Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you?
Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head?
I walked forever, so it seemed,
The screen suffered a mean, green ping. Dive
headfirst into a hole in the water.
Dragged side to side like a floating machine
Dove dancing to a fable told in a sea of the disintegration
Crawled to a celebration of dirt and leaves that tastes like wine
Sucked from a hell that digs into the darkness
Full of the fair that my head rides
I slide your kind through a ladder
Hanging on a star
Stray close, so far away from the crime.
A taped-line section of introspection.
To rewind would be to recline.
Hit the pounds underlying
And gently ride on the sign
Tell your problems to Zero
He's got nothing to hide.