Bowels of Me

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Lawnmaster

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I could tell that things weren't going to plan
The souffle would not rise
And mother called me
"You must leave that woman while you can
And you can"
I was never insolent as a child
At least by the standards of my own children
So I thanked her kindly for her advice
I said "Thanks a fucking lot Ma"

I can hear this voice in the bowels of me
It says "Sit down you fool there's no one out to get you"

I have worked for 15 years at the bank
I suffer from a form of synaesthesia
Words assume the smell of bullshit and fear, so clear
I can feel the grave it yawns like the mouth
Of some pursuing prehistoric creature
Smell of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes
On its breath
On its breath

I can hear this voice in the bowels of me
It says "You're fucked. Go collect your superannuation"

I play bass in bars with poker machines
Caucasian blues and soul for baby boomers
Memories of divorces fresh in their minds, in their minds
They don't want their precepts challenged at all
By Lady Wots-her-name and gangsta rappers
They can feel their empire crumble to sand
Where they stand
Where they stand

I can hear this voice in the bowels of me
It says "Why don't you fake your death and make a fortune?"

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