rigorousintuition.ca

ain’t gonna stress if we don’t get a bunch of press
we got props from Dr. Leary and that dude is fucking dead
breaking chains, taking names, busting heads
found out Alex Jones is just another Fed
...infiltrator, same shit, different flavor
fame hits and we change quick, it’s just nature
...still, it’s sad to see him go from caped crusader
to sniffing Charlie Sheen with Ben Bernanke paper
celebretarded, like every artist I wanted to be
until I watched em get weak and peddle garbage

we don’t argue 'bout problems ...we target them and take them down often
you don’t get it yet we make it sound awesome
it’s hard to be honest now, hard for me to watch my mouth
with the Hand of God’s cameras watching as I walk around
it’s all economics now, everything we talk about
from any given office down to every single cop in town
leave ‘em lost in crowds, disappeared, dropping out
Eagle Down, people shout and scream as we calmly bounce...

I’m leveling the shot, remembering the spots
and when I’m exiting the block.. dump the weapon in a mosque
this is for the long nights assembling the plot
the cameras in the mezzanine and bar don’t record right
for freedom and safety so if I’m arrested or I’m caught
I’m released in a day with a single message from the top
plus it’s easier to blame an unfriendly enemy abroad
seems the secrets that we sleep with are everything we got

...the sniper scope is a movie classic,
that’s nice for shows, but old pros prefer precise explosives...
so yeah, whatever demon piece of shit you protect
I see the distance and depth and plot the grid in my head
...it’s trickier establishing an adequate defense
assassinations never happen if they’re accidents instead
I’m mastering my alibis and practicing to death
and the news never noticed when I tagged you and I left

I don’t see names or victims, just noble reasons
things are so insanely different when you know the secret
see the open season go in slow motion sequence
I spoke to Jesus though I know my oaths to Caesar
...it slowly happens all up in the sober madness
I used to be in pursuit of peace but grew to feel old and tattered
traded in faith in men for global status
rogue combatant, ode to Patton, fold the atlas over back up

Hoover was a problem, closet case, paranoid
framing fake communists and fondling his errand boys
Reagan was a frontman, money came from Asia
paid to make a Patriot to cover for the the caper
...it’s just another awful and monotonous job
watching the clock, counting every body that drops
day to day, strangely mundane, waiting for planes
with a dozen interchangeable names, Angleton games

… I’ve no excuse, just doing what I was told to do
there’s no chosen few, beady eyes or cloven hooves
see, I get to be the guy who stomps his soldier boots
don’t even try to read between the lines when they show the news
and I can’t kill the sound in my head
children shout in the background of my lense
no doubt or regret down in the depths
in and out of my bed, counting down the hours that’s left