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YPLL

by Retox

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released May 28, 2013

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Track Name: Modern Balls
Quit reaching for the stars because you will never be one. Ten out of twelve men don't understand a simple fraction. Garbage in, get garbage out. Who’s milking the cow now? Man’s mammary glands.
Track Name: Mature Science
Outside the po(lice) are the thieves in the streets,
sucking salvation. Everything is legal somewhere.
On vacation. The war waged by the thieves for the thieves, sucking salvation. So stupid is legal here/there. No relation. No adult education,
lubricating the driest generation. No adult education, lacks all responsive stimulation.
Track Name: Don't Fall In Love With Yourself
Dry eye’s blind spot, see superstition. Spare change funeral, bing malnutrition. Dumb animal, expect a world without humans. Dumb animal, dead on the corner. So what, guys become girls? Old goats became gods. Infants staple stomachs as they get real jobs. It’s a shameful subject we have not learned yet. Rational funeral? Dine hormonal. Unprofessional. Disrespectful though, it’s time to let it go.
Track Name: You Lost Me At "It Wasn't My Fault"
I fell into a well, you know, whatever. Some guys got suits, I got soul. Fools gold caught a head cold, soaking in some elderly mold. I got it, “nothing is changing”. What’s taught is so damn old. I try to sing out of key. Reader’s digest(ing), I’ve been told. Let’s loiter the beaches of leather, they are said to be holy. I’m perfect crime, go ahead now, and call me unholy. Go ahead, take it to the verse: Can’t swim in an ocean of leather? Go ahead, take it to the chorus: Sea scavengers huddled together.
Track Name: Congratulations, You're Good Enough
Smile wiped off the face I watch it throw a fit. Flies get it, First World problems, they are a hit.
Tight ass speak, dumb ass split. Tired tongue, will get licked. The bed wetter just paid to still get picked. First World Flies land and take a long lick Biological bed wetting swimming sea sick. Go to the moon, nobody gives a shit. Wise donkey is a pathological optimist.
Track Name: Soviet Reunion
Wrecked‘em has stolen the brains, eats them, shits them, and smells all the stains. A cheap wage to earn from selling overcoats of crosses that burn. Ass is slapped on in reverse equivalent to “meh” and it can even get worse.
So why un-explain how to detach from the rotten food chain? Asses can’t smell these words. Follow some erotic asshole’s hole and smell the food’s stain. Advertisements sell cheap climate change cause clouds full of reign. Let’s see who dies before April and becomes a spy because the dead don’t have to pay taxes back. No need to cry. Smell all the satins of the rotten food chain, always complain of upper class pain.
Track Name: Greasy Psalms
Presenting a dead coward as pigeons fall from the sky. Improvised surgery and the Old World rats are bound to die. Presenting un(man)kind, old ones grow up an die. Rearranged the neurons, pigeons become rats that fly. Do you know permanent, when doves cry a dry sea? Cro-Magnon speak to me, “Think death is temporary.” Sign on up, swallow pride, be the next escapee. Screw the world, this can be an educated killing spree. Gods will lie because they know that there’s nothing else to do when pronounced dead to you. Rats that fly can survive so science transforms few who pay to misconstrue. Now’s the time to grow up and die.
Track Name: I've Had It Up To Here, I'm Going To Prison
I don’t care if they get it or not, now go and fantasize all about nihilism because the old ways of life seem to equal the old ways of death. I can wake up fully dressed in the cold and cynical universe. I’m not going to work due to an emotional breakthrough. Now watch them shit where they sleep… So say something soft and romantic. And that’s why some will manage to live life… guilt free.
Track Name: The Art Of Really Really Sucking
Some guy I kinda know nails Jell-O to a tree. His missing wife is a dead detainee. This other guy I know sucks his own dick. He lives up on the hill, acts like a prick. The 20th century methods don’t seem to work ‘cause there’s no need to tell the truth. It probably wont be ok. No, it probably wont be ok. I said it probably wont be ok. Fuck, it’s probably not going to be ok.
Track Name: Biological Process Of Politics
Hey there dipshit, do the math, sucking spit to take a bath. Political birthed control, find another glory hole. Every minute fools are born, greasy skin won’t be torn. Sign me up to disappoint and lose the so-called focal point. Let’s burn the dead money of the grand(father’s) theft. Enter troll: can’t appoint Blank stare Talking point. Telepath the aftermath and find another psychopath. Ex-troll, his head is swoll sucking soul on cruse control. Kill the kids that eat to morn and film some more two-party porn. Let’s burn the dead body of the old left.
Track Name: Nose To Tail
Dear Hamburger, are you still aching for a side of beef? Do you continue to think your shit does not stink? I don’t know, can you scream? You looked good with acne. Follow thy footsteps, be an even bigger fool. Dropped the kids off in the alley, wearing a diaper rash. Been there, done that, some of us were raised in trash. Serving up a lying peace (of shit). Soaking in some elbow grease. Singing a disturbing piece. Are you still aching for a side of beef. Guts stash the trash in garbage class. Nice diaper rash.
Track Name: Consider The Scab Already Picked
Tis’ the season, own a bad cold. Sovereign treason, watch fluids flow slow. Reinvent crime, flush the household. Most common colds know heads can’t say no. It’s inefficient reproductive breeding season, and the dog food is keeping them strong? Let the calories do what they always wanted to do, now try to sing the song. And I know Their guess is not as good as mine, they will sing it wrong. And the birds shit white right on the fans. Still want to sing along? Embarrassment fluid flows but stops where the mouth ends. Nothing is still nothing, false alarm, white shit is still white shit. And they sing this song wrong.