Frontalot is on appointment
to rock the microphone with a style that’s got disjointment.
Some point went out the window, got lost.
This MC is unwilling to absorb the cost. I foster indignation,
don’t care if my lyrics are obtuse and yo I’m losing my hair.
And you don’t stare at the man on the bus who’s got the voices in his head.
If he led a life of reason, yo you know he would have said:
Listen close, listen close, listen close to the sound:
I don’t wanna be down, I don’t wanna be down.
I know what you’re thinking, you could sink into this state.
I suggest you plug—yes—your ears and concentrate.
Fate of the man who paid too much attention was the depths he plumbed.
Some dumb fate it was too, the way he succumbed.
Might have, um, imagined a world without despair,
and for that matter, I could keep my hair. But beware:
some thoughts are fantasies and others cold hard facts.
Once you’ve given your attention, you can’t take it back.
And Frontalot comes talking in the oddest of ways
on the record that plays. Never meant to order stays
of execution for the speedily dispatched.
Now the man on the bus repeating like a record with a scratch
his name and number, number, name and number, number name.
Suspect that if you ask him again he’ll tell you the same.
To the casual ear the words I say and sense do not endure an intersection.
To such a sentiment I stake objection.