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letra de chekhov's gun - last sons

[verse 1]
this is more than spitting bars like eating prisons to survive but just disliking the metal parts
the unconcerned with your chart art
the from the dark the where the sparks start the bark with no biting
the discovery’s destruction upon deconstruction of the writing
-n-lysing when the frightening chokehold grip of apathy’s tightening is like thunder supplying but they can only see the lightning
last sons land mine rhyming, redesigning ied music
the get stupid acoustics mixed with something for the lucid
the elusive conclusive to all but those that choose to deduce this and refuse to confuse this with that ordinary audio abusive
nor the hubris of the humourless radio airplay intrusive, those who seem driven to do this by the same motivations as judas
instead these words are commuters on a train of thought, travelling; tokyo rush hour style crammed in where there’s only room for standing
advancing to their job in the department of understanding enhancing
not enhanced by the gun talk but last sons still sk!lled in weapons handling

[chorus]
(this is my rifle)
there are many other like it but this one is mine, my rifle is my best friend
(this is my rifle)
there are many other like it but this one is mine, my rifle is my best friend
(this is my rifle)
there are many other like it but this one is mine, my rifle is my best friend
(this is my rifle)
there are many other like it but this one is mine, my rifle is my best friend
(this is my rifle)

[verse 2]
each song is a gun hanging on the wall in act one, with a full mag and its safety flipped; an uzi weighing a ton
barrels smoking when we’re done with no silencers or suppressor’s. the louder the better, leave targets riddled and peppered
x-rays and metal detectors are ineffective in detecting the choice of weaponry selected by the collective, it’s not the tools, but the method
the measured approach, bespoke ammo and a scope not shooting blind loaded with blank bullets and hope
only hoping to hit dope but their line of fire’s a disposable quote. all muzzle flare and gun smoke but it’s not murder that they wrote
file that chance under remote focussing on how the barrel spoke holding it inches from your dome in order for your own mind to explode
instead when these clips unload we blow holes like dolphin breath control with the calculating precision of a k!ller whose blood runs cold
walking a road less travelled never wondering where he might fit, singing this is my rifle there is no other like it

- last sons

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