When they come for you
And they come for me
Let's scroll way down to the bottom of our Twitters and hit delete
Because we can't see
From this crowded bus
What's up around the bend
But I bet there's a roadblock waiting for us
Well, I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
Well, you sure can't wear your hair like that
And when we time-travel back to audit your past, you'll recall this chat
So I'm thinking we might set up a purity test
Where the answers change just a little each day
Come and try your best
Well, what's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
From some 64 inches worth of steel throat down
She lifts her practiced smile over the cheek pad
With all the secondhand grace of a fiddler dismounting her chin from the ebony rest
After fraying up her 24th caprice
This is an artist and a technician
A lord and a servant
The body politic and a body politicked
Into sickening repose, the proof of concept for our latest marble Wall Street fixture
The warrior, as she was once known, here finding respite in our eons-long standoff as the sun boils down and turns us all to tumors
She is a fat white vampire with a squirrelly tuft of purple fuzz atop her conk
And when she dispatches me to yesterday
She cackles sycophantically in chorus with a following she cannot see, or hear, or touch
Because reality holds her to this moment, or to the sofa
Slumped over like a rotting pear as she hunts for dopamine in a magnetic rectangle
And everyone makes money
Though the same poor f*cks get groped and killed
As I, her latest clay pigeon, give myself to this shooter
Like a newborn chick to a factory floor blender
A selfless act of nourishing the machine that keeps her sporting
I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
What's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
A world of only absolutes
Trauma Cat - What's With the Shotgun? Lyrics
Trauma Cat - What's With the Shotgun? Lyrics
Official
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
When they come for you
And they come for me
Let's scroll way down to the bottom of our Twitters and hit delete
Because we can't see
From this crowded bus
What's up around the bend
But I bet there's a roadblock waiting for us
Well, I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
Well, you sure can't wear your hair like that
And when we time-travel back to audit your past, you'll recall this chat
So I'm thinking we might set up a purity test
Where the answers change just a little each day
Come and try your best
Well, what's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
From some 64 inches worth of steel throat down
She lifts her practiced smile over the cheek pad
With all the secondhand grace of a fiddler dismounting her chin from the ebony rest
After fraying up her 24th caprice
This is an artist and a technician
A lord and a servant
The body politic and a body politicked
Into sickening repose, the proof of concept for our latest marble Wall Street fixture
The warrior, as she was once known, here finding respite in our eons-long standoff as the sun boils down and turns us all to tumors
She is a fat white vampire with a squirrelly tuft of purple fuzz atop her conk
And when she dispatches me to yesterday
She cackles sycophantically in chorus with a following she cannot see, or hear, or touch
Because reality holds her to this moment, or to the sofa
Slumped over like a rotting pear as she hunts for dopamine in a magnetic rectangle
And everyone makes money
Though the same poor f*cks get groped and killed
As I, her latest clay pigeon, give myself to this shooter
Like a newborn chick to a factory floor blender
A selfless act of nourishing the machine that keeps her sporting
I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
What's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
A world of only absolutes
And they come for me
Let's scroll way down to the bottom of our Twitters and hit delete
Because we can't see
From this crowded bus
What's up around the bend
But I bet there's a roadblock waiting for us
Well, I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
Well, you sure can't wear your hair like that
And when we time-travel back to audit your past, you'll recall this chat
So I'm thinking we might set up a purity test
Where the answers change just a little each day
Come and try your best
Well, what's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
From some 64 inches worth of steel throat down
She lifts her practiced smile over the cheek pad
With all the secondhand grace of a fiddler dismounting her chin from the ebony rest
After fraying up her 24th caprice
This is an artist and a technician
A lord and a servant
The body politic and a body politicked
Into sickening repose, the proof of concept for our latest marble Wall Street fixture
The warrior, as she was once known, here finding respite in our eons-long standoff as the sun boils down and turns us all to tumors
She is a fat white vampire with a squirrelly tuft of purple fuzz atop her conk
And when she dispatches me to yesterday
She cackles sycophantically in chorus with a following she cannot see, or hear, or touch
Because reality holds her to this moment, or to the sofa
Slumped over like a rotting pear as she hunts for dopamine in a magnetic rectangle
And everyone makes money
Though the same poor f*cks get groped and killed
As I, her latest clay pigeon, give myself to this shooter
Like a newborn chick to a factory floor blender
A selfless act of nourishing the machine that keeps her sporting
I let myself get lazy
And you let yourself get a little crazy
Buckle your seatbelt, baby
Because we're going for a little ride
What's with the shotgun, darling?
Is this the firing squad, no pardon?
What's with the sudden hard-on
For a world of only absolutes?
A world of only absolutes
Writer: Philip Grajko, Daniel Poorman
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid