Black Rose - Cecil Otter

I hear «oohs!»

and «ahhs!», when I jump off my garage

People treat me like I’m dying for a cause cause I believe in God

Santa Clause, and The Easter Bunny

I’m hanging out with Lady Luck, and feeding her when her beaver’s hungry

Don’t need your money, don’t need your company

Do need that filthy middle finger out my cup of tea

Like, if it takes one to bleed

And two to make the bleeding stop;

I’d rather leave a trail of blood

Now it’s two-thousand-and-

And I’m still kicking like old habits

Still sticking with no address or mattress

Now, half this life spent in these skate shoes

Been spent walking to the beat of a breakthrough

I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers

Make a new fan, cut a rug and dupe later

New raider of the lost breaks and bass lines

Trying to discover some peace on the freight lines

Nine hollows and I’m feeling like a fifty-spot

Channeling my lady luck, see what that gypsy’s got

She’s looking up today, smiling at the thunderstorm

Playing her tiny violin that keep my hunger warm

While a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons

I write my songs singing, «So long!»

to all the heathens

Like, «Greetings to you, good riddance.»

It’s time for your bad come-back

So come back to the:

I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics

While I address my Minnesota ethics

Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don’t respect it

My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric

So who’s that peeking in my window?

Right now!

I don’t know, but I can see the interest in their eyebrow

I vow to the dying day of my inner works:

My medium is extra-large, until I’m in the dirt

My fingers hurt from all these over-anxious brushstrokes

Sometimes I’m not looking, I’ll wind up, and cut throats

Just jokes man, I’ll set 'em all aside soon

For now they’re my baby: the centerfold

So from that, circus cannon that you shot me through

To smoking poison in the boy’s room with a Mötley Crüe

Talk me through this

With the coffee, or the newest fixative

And you’ll just say the music’s a risk to his health

But he sticks to his guns, 'til they stick to you

Keeps twisting his tongue, and it’ll spit to you

Sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions

But he don’t sleep, cause sleep is the Reaper’s cousin

And he’s a holy ghost hunter, Steve Perry street talker

Eating some moldy toast under my Beef Whopper

Small city beat-jocker addicted to the hocking spit

Off-beat beatboxer who thinks he’s rocking it

Hip-hop-kin's kid with a mouth full of dynamite

Checking myself for ticks, and Jimmy Caster troglodytes

I hide the fight and show my best impression of…

I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics

While I address my Minnesota ethics

Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don’t respect it

My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric