MS. MURAL

[Verse 1]

"If you had to paint the gutter, which color would you choose?"

Said the patron to the painter, the painter said, "The blues"

"Do you act off intuition or languish and peruse?"

"More like tap into tradition from the angle of my mood"

He looked back at his canvas while strangling a tube

A master of the palette, all sanguine and cool

The music mostly jazz, the jazz mostly old

Punctured by some punk and some old smoky soul

An atlas on the trunk from the land of broken goals

Just a cover and a back that you open and you close

"Where are all the pages?" The paintеr said, defanged

"I ripped 'еm all out and made some paper planes

Fish grease absorbers and some origami cranes”

Poured hisself a drink and then poured it down the drain

Looked at the empty canvas, said "I think I have a name

I'll call it 'Gasoline Pouring on the Flames,'" hah, hah

[Instrumental Break]

[Verse 2]

"I appreciate the visit, this isn't normally allowed"

"Do you consider yourself wild or conforming to a style?"

The patron pointed at a pile, "Are those rejections or mistakes?"

The painter said, "That is not for question or debate

Most of what we know as art is the projection of a faith

The product of a Pontiff or the election of a saint

A gift from the read for the digestion of the can't

A visual garnish for the confessions of the frank

Displays of physical carnage make connections to the ranks

Goes over very well with South Americans and Yanks

Not to sound shamanistic, but there's medicine in paint

It gets kinetic if you let it, there's a fetish in its strength

Martyrdom will call, Russian roulette is in the flanks

And most would pull the trigger if the weapon's full of blanks

But when there's a pool of sharks and you step into the tank

That's the pool of art that got 'em headed to the plank

But they fell for the deceptiveness of the secularist's complaint

The upheaval of the cathedral into the edifice of bank

That pile over there is just the evidence of angst

The failed revival of a perfectionist when his efforts have just sank

A selection of the waste that lacks direction or a base

You lose all of the plots for the affections of a race

Man does not become superior 'cause you connect him to a cape

Nor does become inferior because you connect him to a ape

I never wanted my life to be a collection of some dates

And holiday my days away and intellectually sedate

It's not really a beef but conceptually it's steak

Like do genitals and gender roles successfully conflate?

The current art world is just competitively opaque

It never ceases to amaze, my mouth is medically agape

One day its raising up the brand, the next it's shredding it to flakes

And the velocity of trends is what referees the pace

Professionally accept what ethically I hate

So in all of my work, you see this wrestling with fate

Deceiving in the brushstrokes how aggressively I strafe

Less like putting on some makeup, more like severing a face"

"Wow," said the patron with a smile

"That's the most interesting diatribe I've heard in a while

How you articulated the nature and put it all on trial

Took it up to Heaven, then put it on the ground"

The painter asked the patron, "Can you stand up on the pile?

I've had a flash of inspiration, my creativeness aroused"

The model took its place, the painter grabbed a lighter

Doused the shit in gasoline and set it all on fire

[Outro]

We got through the hearts of stone

And the scars for bones

When your heart's unknown

In the arc of Joan, yeah