Book Of Clichés

from by Ryan Wasoba

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lyrics

I wrote a book
It's a book of clichés
Each page grows more relevant every day

How could there possibly be any more
Words left that no one's put together before?

I took a look
A good look at my face
Bruised, beaten, my features so far out of place

Dollar bin knockoffs of Picasso prints
There's no abstraction for the accurate

I wish that I could keep my head above my heels
But I can't stop digging
To bury my ears in the ground where I can hear
All the wagons approaching

I guess that this is how having a conscience feels:
There's a big white van
With a satellite dish
That is park right in front of my heart tonight

I wrote a song
It was slow and long
I wrote all the words and the music wrong
That's something someone else wrote
Note for note

I wrote a book
Wrote a screenplay, wrote an opera
Wrote a concept album but then I shelved them all
Because I labored and labored but I couldn't make them
Any more than just a shell of what I wanted them to be

God, I hope you never have to feel the same
Like the worst is impending
Struggling just to make your lyrics rhyme again
Always fudging the ending

I hate the sound my body makes when it can't sleep
It's like a big white man
Hiding under my bed
With a microphone and he's sending out a signal to
The big white van
With a satellite dish
That is parked right in front of my heart tonight
And every beat is a beep of fluorescent green
On the monitor screens inside

Now I never wait for the phone to ring
No, I'm just waiting for my phone to get disconnected
Penalized for my sins
Ostracized from the grid
And eulogizing my water, sewer, trash, electric

Now the furnace is a freezer and the cold is biting
Now the furnace is a freezer and the cold has teeth
So I burn every single thing that I ever created
Just to warm up my body and my hands by the heat

But if a spark jumps out, if it lands in the house
And it if spreads to the curtains and I can't put it out
If I'm trapped in the attic and I'm screaming for help
Would the neighbors call the cops?
Would they just sit and watch?

And if the hoses and extinguishers and hydrants don't work
Would it be karmic retribution for the people I've hurt?
Because I labored and labored but I couldn't make myself
Any more than just a shell of who I wanted to be

Now my hands are tired
And my skin is cracked
And I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back

My bones are tired
And my joints are cracked
And I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back

My tongue is tired
And my lips are crackedAnd I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
And I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back

The floor's on fire
And the plaster's cracked
And I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back
I don't think I'm gonna get my damage deposit back

credits

from Music For No Reason, released June 25, 2012
Jerry Mazzuca - drums.
Ryan Wasoba - everything else.

Recorded in the winter of 2011 and then remixed and mastered in the summer of 2012.

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about

Ryan Wasoba Edwardsville, Illinois

This is the page for the music Ryan Wasoba occasionally makes in his home in Edwardsville, Illinois, a sleepy town located in the Eastern sector of the Greater St. Louis Metropolitan Area.

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