Lyrics Fuckheads Is the Auto-correction - of Montreal

Am I a creep because I don′t have a chosen pronoun?
Am I a creep because my mind is the Odeon of the multiverse?
How you bragged your length of legs by insisting to walk to Midtown
Microchips looking miserable in a Greenpoint gallery
I bounced between bars full of ink alone as a pinball, yes that alone

Now your long haired friend is looking for his cocaine
And I'm happy my drink′s not empty, as long as there's something left in the glass you don't look like an alcoholic
She sometimes, always appears to be plural, I oversing ambivalence

Ovary venom as a first confession
Now that shе shaved her head wе′re all one big comb over
He developed a craving for impotent men who peacock Themselves invisible and being very ugly for tips
Gentrification of libido, self-titled just like New York City itself

Ragout the streetware of horsemanship I can dance with you
We took too much bitter anonymous performative abuse and now we can′t sleep
She changed her name by one letter leaving nothing to discretion
Fuckheads is the new preferred auto-correction

Every idea is aquatic life no thought is the sea
That's the only tear I′ve never cried it cried for me
Gray babies ululating outside the afternoon door
Horror vacui conversation I don't adore mi amor