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Portugal. The Man
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Fantastic Pace
he was born in the first grade
hungry little lion
swallowed all he saw
still he's barely alive
he was a colorful person
born of some colorful people
opened up his mouth
he poured some colorful speeches
his home was a tar paper palette tyvek green house
pumped into the cul de sac gravel housing his house
where living like the drinks are rivers, wells, creeks, oceans, bays
every years we get a little older found in his ways
'i hope he never grows,
grows into nothing'
he's not so well behaved
what are we to do
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get him to the digging get him over in the corner
got a little place out in the crystal fires
no one wants you no one wants you no one wants you
what are we to do?
(x4)
starving empty stares pushed it down in the parking lots
the valley, lake, cars and the riverbed hang outs
a long way from the little lion in black full-body snow-suits
snowshoe, goosebay and neighbors claims on empty lots
where guns and gold were goals
given up given his place
below all the giants growing up at fantastic pace
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