KEN MODE LYRICS

1. Blessed

We can play this game a little bit longer, but we all know we're not really welcome here. Handfuls of proverbial shit tossed over and over against that same proverbial wall, willing heads mashing it in; this stubborn battering ram of perpetual loss. Thank you for
humoring it, though nobody should condone this. We're blessed. That enraged feline knows what's coming one last time before our place is set back behind that big black desk. A walking parody in black jeans and the seventy mile strut. There's something to be said for that
old underdog tale of woe; but very rarely do the full stories fulfill your hearts desires. We're blessed.

2. These Tight Jeans

I would like to learn how to kill the nicest man in the world; make him feel uneasy, make him feel strange. I am that scholar of spite and I am that top fiend: change my life you handsome terror; cover me with your sin, I don't want to be clean.
Hard drugs in the sex ads, its the tale of the desperation of men. No let him be teased, this experimental girl needs a casual flex now and then. Well where is Cade's mom? I've been faking my way as I roam. the pit boss granted you true love in your lap, now take it back
home
And when we all lose; this certainly was not well planned. And then we all lose: pointless negativity on demand.
I would like to learn how to kill the nicest man in the world; make him feel uneasy make him feel strange; value propositions clearly unfurled. Can we trust that the true goth strikes inward? Fairy-tale love just isn't for you. In the end, as long as you're having fun;
which we're not - this damnation's for two. The macho man's lips, it's like a lunar eclipse; I’ve been shifting in my skin while you're been shaking your hips. we can talk 'til the break of dawn, but I’ll be rolling down the highway while the point's past gone. And when
we all lose - the heart is beyond repair. And then we all lose; there is no heart, there's only despair.

3. The Owl

Treading that fine line of what’s wrong and what’s right.
While too many years were spent caring much too much about an arbitrary code, the fine print in the grey area seems a lot more complex that it ever used to. Some days you’ve got it, and some days you don’t; whatever that means. We like to think that what matters is how
you react when the cards are down, but none of it does in the end.
Pick up
Pick up
Pick up
And move on.
That elemental, sentimental, pristine ideal is clearly gone. Too many tales. Forced to the rails, my patience surely drawn. I’ll wear those horns no more. It’s not what matters, but you know the score.

4. I Just Liked Fire

I can’t stop thinking about your skin. My hands: your legs. My lips: your hips.

I can’t take it, I’m gone, I’m gone, I’m gone. I’m yours, will you be… this night: such heat. Our skin: fixated ecstasy. I’m gone yet we ain’t done. I can’t stop thinking about your skin.

5. Management Control

It’s a luck that matters. Did you enjoy your walk through the moonlight? I cut out those letters, fastened them to the concrete oh so tight. “Where does money come from?” the conversations within are far more interesting than your petty agenda against sin. We lived in a
privileged world; use it for something we believe in. I’d rather confess to the girls in the brother. And (we) walked along our usual path, focusing on something much less awful; like the relationship between things, it’s all a matter of change. The divine proportion,
it’s the physical rhythm – much like a dance – memories accumulate, the recent ones float to the top and the others fade away. It’s a luck that matters.
Seeing a face might bring them back, reality transcending imagery; the movement of a man in relation to his inner self; his absolute being. Playing his true self, like shaking an outstretched hand. It’s a luck that matters. Management control.

6. A Passive Disaster

A day when southern Manitoba could not be more sublime: ”God’s good blessing to you my friend!”

A freshness unparalleled, with budding leaves, a gentle breeze, rays of the sun bleaching my soft hair. The first insects of the season, zipping about in the usual exuberance that they might convey if they had human emotions. Bird calls ring through the air, a symphony
of ambience. I sit, lounging in patio furniture, plaid shorts, a short tee, absorbing all that is before me. These illusions pay no mind to the shaking of my nerves. I’ve  recently been sent here to tell you that your story is not a good story at all: the all-natural
fuckeasy.  Well I’d rather be a whore, than a slave: this is an illusion of despair.

7. Failing At Fun Since 1981

The most simplistic way is to pretend that everything is A-Okay,  though I’ve been failing at fun since nineteen eighty-one so can you taste me please? This story has so many dead pets;
They can’t feel your touch.
It could be worse, because you’re good at sex, I just don’t care all that much. Like a prairie mountain – it’s a garbage hill. Hot salad for the eater of hair, it’s a void you just can’t fill.
Yeah, yeah, this forever; and we all lose, why don’t you show me sometime?

8. A Catalog Of Small Disappointments

Stinking breath. Such entitled tastes. There is a man; so complicated. Of tall stature and athletic build… She was a grand lady, but things could ultimately get expensive. So very fetching; but hesitation breeds missed opportunity. Mostly worthy matriarch and the sickly,
unshapely duo: it is your age, or perhaps something a little bit deeper? “Was it divine providence or my own moral guilt?” Thirty six point eight percent. We’ll follow our hearts through this secretary problem. Kepler.

9. Dead Actors

What was the last thing you’ve done that mattered? A loaded question but does any of it hold any weight? Always clearing the path of the past: a nice day for a walk to the end. Hot blooded; a chaos ruling my veins.
Down. Drawn. Dust.
This afternoon soundtrack to annihilation; I sit here alone, listening to the crashing of waves against the run of a strong current. All is so still. When the laughter stops, and There’s no fitting end.
Always clearing the path of the past. A nice day for a walk to the end.







KEN MODE LYRICS