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Upsweep Lyrics - Perfect Hair - Busdriver

Upsweep... 

Upsweep... 

 

Can you, can you. 

Can you hear me? 

I'm speaking through you 

The signal weakens from this begrizzled beacon so pay attention 

 

We painted our faces on a permanent moon to avoid being type cast as surrogate coons 

But there is no treatment for American gloom, so I'm taking my reverberant room and I'm gone far 

With the money and sheet music and discarded doodles (yeah) 

The company they work for cut spending, bringing all botherisms to abrupt ending 

But if you think it's me you're up-ending 

We could be grinding even if it's gut wrenching 

And we're on one 

Like we're knee deep in drug-vending, fuck lemmings whose love spending gives us the best things 

Like a J down the space suit of sweat stained 

The undercovers gave me a cute pet-name 

Now I'm being targeted by jet-plane 

Because I'm so motherfucking subversive 

With excessive panache I'm dressed in a sash 

My name is a number, an X and a dash 

Embedded in mass who stole all the savings and had sex with the cash 

 

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As far as these lives, we get one each 

And then our bodies are tucked in the junk heap 

But all these mistakes tend to cut deep 

I swear I can hear you die just a little bit in the 

 

x 10 

Upsweep 

 

Yo 

Dangling in a thread of my temporal lobe 

I thrust my fist up life's spread(?) gold nose 

Then walked around [???] genitals cold 

It wasn't for embezzled gold 

It was just for you and you and you 

Don't propose a toast for unusual hosts 

Using musical notes to fuel the U-Boats 

(you pricks) 

All the credit inside your checking account 

Sits in a mechanized sexless mouth 

And getting it back, boy, the pressure mounts 

So you're having a stroke and the medic's en route 

This is the ending 

I was showing niggas that I had exquisite taste 

Now I'm locked out of all of my vivid scapes 

And the capital gains is a Christian faith 

Of the livid apes, staying in debate 

Over the unhappy lives that we have to live 

But we still do it, eating inkjets, building swing sets from dragon ribs 

All the internet chatter is a by-product of my madness 

Turning me into a vapid and glib capitalist pig 

I didn't notice until now that a shoe's a phone 

For what reason would any tycoon atone(?) 

But for me to find money I need to get a dune combed 

Because I'm so motherfucking self-destructive 

I'm caressing a rash from a decadent past 

My judgment calls are sick and [?] 

I'm rendered in ash when I ingest the asp 

 

Photos 

 

As far as these lives, we get one each 

Then our bodies are tucked in the junk heap 

But I can't afford all the upkeep 

I swear I can hear myself die just a little bit in the 

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Artist: Noizy