Atmosphere Gotta Lotta Walls Lyrics

Gotta Lotta Walls Lyrics

Dialed up his homie Murs on the telephone

Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong

Brain freezing up, he don't know what to do

But the people that know him know that it ain't nothing new

Catch five rings, then an answering machine

Hang up on the beep, stare up towards the ceiling

Stood up to remember that he slept fully-dressed

So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat's nest

Stepped up to that big outside

Somebody once said "Today's a good day to die."

But he never really was a big fan of their work

So he starts up the walk by kicking sand in the dirt

A friend to the strangers, a stranger to friends

He'll take a coffee and a pack of cigarettes when you have a minute

Handle it. Paid up. The change, you can keep it

He's a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage

If you knew him better he'd ask for some time

Cuz he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind

And there's only so much he can put in a song

Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong



[Hook 2X]

And this house has gotta lotta walls

But only very few mean anything to you

And this house has gotta lotta walls

But only very few mean anything to you



No shop value to titillate

Far from shallow, so get it straight

Blacktop, sidewalk,and the street

Cuz life is priceless and talk is cheap

And as he sits (as he sits) in his four-cornered room

Following a tune, born to consume

Carefully learning and analyzing the lyrics you use

Finally realizing that humility is a bruise

Scared love don't make none

If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones

Watching this man, falling off of his plan-

Underachievin' just so he can understand. (Crazy reverse speech.)



[Hook]



So, who did your tattoos?

That's nice

And who built your tabboos?

That's life

If he had a glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists

But someone already beat him to it

He would fingerpaint you a picture with his blood

A self-portrait, dramatic and morbid

But the odds of you finding any appreciation are too slim-

Keeps his outlook grim

Tap his foot to the rhythm of original sin

Throw his balls to the wind trying to know down these pins

He'll keep swinging from the hair above his chin

Till he finds his soul in the fifty cent bin

The price of the payphone escalates

Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates

He could write another hate-poem for you to break

Or maybe stay calm and wait for that big earthquake

Still surrounded by the fire and the water

Still trying to honor this empire's daughter

Still answering questions you're afraid to ask

Still believing that God's gonna save his ass



[Hook]



If you knew him better he'd ask for some time

Cuz he's looking for a reservoire to empty his mind

And there's only so much he can put in a song

Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong