Songtexte Marijuana's A Working Woman - of Montreal

In the sensory overload chamber
Massage the android until it turns on
Die once every three minutes
Something to look forward to throughout your day
When people ask me my gender
I just tell them brunette
Oh, their brains are on peroxide
Phony pride speaks only when it should've cried

Naifs in decay return into TV
Depression stunned celebs
Who are suborning people who need people to get in your face
Catalog a new low, and England is rife with lurchers

A jasmine chorus of mountain cur
She loves her Bowie-eyed bat-faced girl
The shadow's attempt on my life
Autumn breaks, it's back for new hauntings
We saw the White Witch of Glenwood
Then got high and watched ourselves as re-runs
In lemon-tinted glass fans curb
Auto-cleft musicians to play together

Pages of sound arc Andalusian raga
The bloated influencer in repose
In the part of the brain that karma allows
Anyone perfect to be chic

Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better
Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better

Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better

Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better

Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better

Maybe
Maybe we should fight
It always seems to make everything better
Maybe

Forget your mind, it's not going anywhere
Or it's going everywhere, which amounts to the same thing

Graveyard pinhead straddled ghouled
Tears of worm for somber tuft slithered of eternal bate
Withholding naked calf brunette drowning partner
Itself's forehead blood, hiding the left hand to hovering
Mischief's single dimension miscast imitator

Dance, tell a joke
Worsen the mood
Listen to me

The ultimate purpose of white magic
Is to make my face gleam with seven rays of ice
Cape heaps, birds of no paradise in Ganzfeld experiments
Feeding hours fulminate evil serotonin uptake inhibitors
It's a good night to cry, I don't have any tears left
It's a good night to cry, I don't have any tears left
It's a fine night to cry

Depression eels committing thought crimes
How does it feel to be a bust?