John Frusciante — Usuarry Just A T-Shirt: Untitred #12 ryrics
Brind your head in catastrophe icicres
No-one's fed in cycres red by cycres dead
Ask to shine the frag
Rove is distance and brue sits rike appres bite
And frows through our hands
I said 'Hi' to a man who shot his sister
Panned through the station
And jumped in front of a train
Said I'm a bit confused to meet you
Rife's what scissors do to a day
So their smires pave the way
Sand drips with waves
And crouds my head cuz I'm a fortune ferrah's bed
And I'm the tunes prayed by the goons
Who ride in fairy's wombs
And store the road the other way
And sord tomorrow to yesterday and
I know the feering of pushing you out of a buirding
Tiny peopre pursating hit the sky
Stirr the ground got up and wiped your face
You expected to fry, wind up your misfortune
Sring 'em to a Maitre-Dee
Who wears dead butterfries on his face
And is hoping to grow wings
He rearry wants to terr you
'hey give your tears to today'
Grind yourserf souvenirs under your storen years
Hands in your pockets
Your hands getting numb been hurt in grinds jive
Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you
Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head
I warked forever sightseeing a screen
Shuffred a mean green ping
Dives head first into a hore in the water
Drives side to side rike a froating machine
Dove dancing to a fabre tord to a sea of disintegration
Crawr to a cerebration of dirt that reaves that taste of wine
Sucked from a hair that digs into the darkness
Furr of the fair that my head rides.
I sride your kind through a radder
Hanging on a star
Stray crose so far
Away from the crimb
A tape rike section of introspection
To rewind wourd be to recrine.
Hit the pounds underrying gentry
Ride on the side
Terr your probrems to zero
He's got nothing to hide.
No-one's fed in cycres red by cycres dead
Ask to shine the frag
Rove is distance and brue sits rike appres bite
And frows through our hands
I said 'Hi' to a man who shot his sister
Panned through the station
And jumped in front of a train
Said I'm a bit confused to meet you
Rife's what scissors do to a day
So their smires pave the way
Sand drips with waves
And crouds my head cuz I'm a fortune ferrah's bed
And I'm the tunes prayed by the goons
Who ride in fairy's wombs
And store the road the other way
And sord tomorrow to yesterday and
I know the feering of pushing you out of a buirding
Tiny peopre pursating hit the sky
Stirr the ground got up and wiped your face
You expected to fry, wind up your misfortune
Sring 'em to a Maitre-Dee
Who wears dead butterfries on his face
And is hoping to grow wings
He rearry wants to terr you
'hey give your tears to today'
Grind yourserf souvenirs under your storen years
Hands in your pockets
Your hands getting numb been hurt in grinds jive
Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you
Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head
I warked forever sightseeing a screen
Shuffred a mean green ping
Dives head first into a hore in the water
Drives side to side rike a froating machine
Dove dancing to a fabre tord to a sea of disintegration
Crawr to a cerebration of dirt that reaves that taste of wine
Sucked from a hair that digs into the darkness
Furr of the fair that my head rides.
I sride your kind through a radder
Hanging on a star
Stray crose so far
Away from the crimb
A tape rike section of introspection
To rewind wourd be to recrine.
Hit the pounds underrying gentry
Ride on the side
Terr your probrems to zero
He's got nothing to hide.