Man Proposes, God Disposes

Lyrics for Man Proposes, God Disposes

It's about control, or lack thereof A twist of fate, a change, a reversal The ox turned butcher, the slave turned master The band turned audience Cue the doe in headlights' eyes Response to roadkill diatribe Finally, I am my own wind, ship, sails, and oar I will be your target I will stand here like an idiot, with an apple on my head While you hurl in response like some blasphemous arrow Thus, a guilt most crushing, a Sisyphean guilt A heart hidden beneath the floorboards guilt William Tell-tale Heart A post-ejaculation man upstairs watching guilt Wet potential smeared across your stomach guilt And it's entirely your own guilt Lacking any description worthy To subsume in just simple words It is a disservice to the blank sensation of When the sky has its way with you And you burn up in the atmosphere All creation whispers in your ear Blessed is the dog defecating on your lawn, grinning Inhale, exhale, etcetera Animals eat animals, etcetera Animals fuck animals, etcetera Do I have to spell it out for you? The words printed in supernova bold I am always riding these rotations around the sun I am always riding this pretty bow tied on top So tight as to never come undone The same joke twice, but the second time louder An ocean of intellectual people laughing Sailing idiot waters forever While advertisements like nooses hang Covering up man proposes, God disposes In preparation for a test taken in a play I'm always writing in my head And in it, your character imagines Men hung up on meat hooks, in a butcher's shop And eyed by oxen dressed in fur coats, and leather hats Animals eat animals, ad infinitum Cast in a starring role as flesh While everyone else you know plays motion Spared details, and generous skips to the good parts Signed by the sun with a wink, and a thumbs up Dancing lucid in arachnid schemes Arachnid reputation proceeding, so contrary to a familiar soft A grasp for sense where there is none Sense is a spark between us Sense is a cross-armed glance, and silent nod between us Both shackled, and accessed by a constant waltz Of pushing air, and wagging tongues The intimate marriage of sensation and response An exchange of jargon from one orifice to the next All my thoughts are colorless green ideas sleep furiously All my thoughts, every one And through this, I admire the farce of control And my total lack of wind, ship, sails, and oar Every grip sustained on tangible artifact Is an amusing thought, and nothing more