Black Rose

[Verse 1: Cecil Otter] I hear "oohs!" and "ahhs!", when I jump off my garage People treat me like I'm dying for a cause cause I believe in God Santa Clause, and The Easter Bunny I'm hanging out with Lady Luck, and feeding her when her beaver's hungry Don't need your money, don't need your company Do need that filthy middle finger out my cup of tea Like, if it takes one to bleed And two to make the bleeding stop; I'd rather leave a trail of blood Now it's two-thousand-and- And I'm still kicking like old habits Still sticking with no address or mattress Now, half this life spent in these skate shoes Been spent walking to the beat of a breakthrough I shake a few hands, hug a few strangers Make a new fan, cut a rug and dupe later New raider of the lost breaks and bass lines Trying to discover some peace on the freight lines Nine hollows and I'm feeling like a fifty-spot Channeling my lady luck, see what that gypsy's got She's looking up today, smiling at the thunderstorm Playing her tiny violin that keep my hunger warm While a hundred horns blow for the wrong reasons I write my songs singing, "So long!" to all the heathens Like, "Greetings to you, good riddance." It's time for your bad come-back So come back to the: [Hook: {Sample}, Cecil Otter] {Black rose! Little, little lady!} I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics {Black rose! Little, little lady!} While I address my Minnesota ethics {Black rose! Little, little lady!} Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don't respect it {Black rose! Little, little lady!} My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric [Verse 2: Cecil Otter] So who's that peeking in my window? Right now! I don't know, but I can see the interest in their eyebrow I vow to the dying day of my inner works: My medium is extra-large, until I'm in the dirt My fingers hurt from all these over-anxious brushstrokes Sometimes I'm not looking, I'll wind up, and cut throats Just jokes man, I'll set 'em all aside soon For now they're my baby: the centerfold So from that, circus cannon that you shot me through To smoking poison in the boy's room with a Mötley Crüe Talk me through this With the coffee, or the newest fixative And you'll just say the music's a risk to his health But he sticks to his guns, 'til they stick to you Keeps twisting his tongue, and it'll spit to you Sings you to sleep with a song of repercussions But he don't sleep, cause sleep is the Reaper's cousin And he's a holy ghost hunter, Steve Perry street talker Eating some moldy toast under my Beef Whopper Small city beat-jocker addicted to the hocking spit Off-beat beatboxer who thinks he's rocking it Hip-hop-kin's kid with a mouth full of dynamite Checking myself for ticks, and Jimmy Caster troglodytes I hide the fight and show my best impression of... [Hook: {Sample}, Cecil Otter] {Black rose! Little, little lady!} I came to pigeon-hole the skeptics {Black rose! Little, little lady!} While I address my Minnesota ethics {Black rose! Little, little lady!} Could give a goddamned fuck if the children don't respect it {Black rose! Little, little lady!} My name is Cecil fucking Otter not Dylan Goes Electric