Atmosphere - Gotta lotta walls

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