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Sage Francis
Self Fighteous


Joined: 30 Jun 2002
Posts: 21581
Lyrics to 7 songs not in the lyrics section  Reply with quote  

Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Specialist
Album: Personal Journals The one that I'm with thinks sex is a beautiful thing and that's simply adorable.
When my time is affordable, dimes pay the price. I get abusive and that's the truth.
It's just a fuckin' shame this is how I choose to communicate,
excuses I produce have their roots in the music I make.
She's not a fan...nor am I famous.
I may just change and adjust
when I branch out and leave. Get off my damn couch and achieve
what I dream about, leave my house, hand out my keys
to the sleepless beauty who failed math class and can't count her z's.
Ha ha ha ha "the tree died."
She says that she's mine, she's my proprietress.
I can't hold onto most of what I own, besides she likes to kiss
and that's cute. I hug her 'til I start to hurt her.
She wants to dance to my pulse but I've got heart murmurs.
A shark circles our lifeboat 'til its fin folds.
The monster we created might choke in clothes.
I'm naked walking tightropes without big toes,
couldn't see this with a nightscope if my skin glowed.

Falling, calling for a safety net.
The great white might drain me of my life, bite into my veiny neck.
Wet dreams of falling asleep
could dry up when she sees that I bleed off beat.
Head over heels 'cause she's tripping on her own feet,
that puzzled look on her face that isn't complete.
She gives bits and pieces of herself.
While I'm breaking myself open, I pour my contents to her shelf.
Pardon me, but is that me wearing my hard-on on my sleeve?
With razor sharp teeth...gnawing at my wrist... how beautiful is this?
The most beautifulist thing in the world,
is making up words when I have none else left to say to a girl.
Making her curl up in a ball in the corner of my eye,
taking a time-out, I don't want her to cry.
I don't ever wanna be considered the sort of guy
who says "I just might break your face tonight."

I spread my love like the legs of a crackwhore,
we sleep together but don't sleep to keep it simple.
You dance around me like a fire,
blow me away, blow me away.

I spread my love like the legs of a crackwhore,
we sleep together but don't sleep to keep it simple.
You dance around me like a fire,
blow me out and I'll send you love poems in the form of smoke signals.

Over-average marriage materialist, Mr. Righteous,
a savage miscarriage of justice. Just us and the dust that never settles.
I'm rust that spreads on metal to make it weak, plus disgustingly ugly.
Nobody wants to fuck with or touch me.
Underappreciative with a hundred weaknesses. What do I need to live?
The blood I bleed is thicker than the skin I shed people with.
Beat a fist to the air, pretend to make believe she cares,
'til I open up old wounds, and the usual bruises on my ego appear.
I'm a low self-esteem engine in need of a whorespower. Out of sleeping powder.
Dark clouds follow me with heat-seekers, I need a colder shower.
The showboat won't expose his open ended quest,
'cause it won't float if it turns out these are permanent echoes in his chest.
I think it's best to turn the reverb down, kill the delay,
and get me the fuck out of this cave!

I could paint you pictures all day.
But I'm not gonna pander to Neanderthals that way.
I'm not gonna pander to Neanderthals today (uh uh).

The one that I'm with thinks sex is a beautiful thing.
She thinks I'm something special. She's my specialist and more beautiful than sex.
'Cause only something like sex can make something so lovely turn ugly, and fuck up shit.
I'm holding a sleepless beauty pageant on my shark infested water bed until it's punctured.

I spread my love, spread my love, spread my love until I pull a muscle.
Spread my love, spread my love, spread my love until it's see-through.

I spread my love like the legs of a crackwhore,
we sleep together but don't sleep to keep it simple.
You dance around me like a fire,
blow me away, blow me away.

I spread my love like the legs of a crackwhore,
we sleep together but don't sleep to keep it simple.
You dance around me like my fire,
blow me out and I'll send you love poems in the form of smoke signals.



Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Vital Signs
Album: Sick of Waiting Tables... (Iceland Radio Intro)

And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
Ain't lookin' like they got the strength to fight, arggh.

Switch up your pulse patterns. What's the RPM off your breath?
Kick start your heart with a punch beating your chest.
Squeezing your heads 'til I pop vessels in your eye sockets,
sweet talk your ears off 'til your blood pressure sky rockets.
It murders kids, check for lumps in your throat.
Before you burn a bridge, jump in a moat.
Depending on whether you float or sink, know how to swim or can't,
you'll know what to think before you provoke some shit between concentration camp-
counselors...giving first aid training.
Mouth-to-mouth resesitate lady fate when I see her face fading.
I make her suck wind, bring her vibrant colors back,
see if she has any contacts and find out where her mother's at.
Said she had my number, but nothing other than that?
When she said my number's up, I laughed, the EMS came running back.
Doing suicides, a relay race of time
and space between me and destiny but I leave no trace to find.
She leaves nowhere to hide? I leave no hide to wear.
Skin myself, leave my bones dressed up in some tribal gear.
Mummify everytime I lived in the now.
If you don't want to die then come alive and don't give your number out.

Countdown...to the end of my show.
Shout loud...if you ain't ready to go.
The out crowd...might never know
why I'm tryin' to find...vital signs.

And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
And I don't know, they lookin' dead tonight.
Ain't lookin' like they got the strength to fight for the rest of the night.

They lookin' dead tonight,
they lookin' dead tonight,
they lookin' dead tonight,
ain't lookin' like they got the strength to fight, arggh.


Artist: Xaul Zan
Title: Who's Crying
Album: Sick of Waiting Tables... I go to the water park to show off my altered cock,
to any whore in a halter top who likes to talk a lot.
I force a sock into her mouth hole to keep her gums from flapping.
Strip her of her southpole, and bust a fuckin' backspin
on her Northface. Turn this court case into a dragged out lawsuit.
I'm attracted to her dad now, he's more cute.
"Eeeyyooo!" I heard the guy comes quick from hand speed.
I'mma hafta fertilize his stomach with my man seed.
"Then plant trees!" My brocolli cock needs watering.
Cry your eyes out above my rotting crotch and feed it awful things
like love and affection, right? Hug the erection tight!
She went down under, I fed that Aussie slut some Vegamite.
I get in fights every night because of my heavy metal persona,
with rapper stars but battle scars are my medals of honor.
We're rappers without a consciousness. I've had it with of all this pompous 'ish.
I'm just gonna' get obnoxious with...repeatedly callin' ya mom's a beach bum.


Artist: Sage Francis f/ Slug
Title: Day Grows Old
Album: Sick of Waiting Tables... Sage Francis:
Build up your saliva, and get ready to kill the fire.

Spit in the face of figure heads.
Give 'em a taste of the shit I said.
Build a place for children to escape the inbred human race of living deadbeat
dads milking the motherless childcare system.
Let the sleepers have another nightmare from Christian conservatives.
They don't fight fair, and any religion would murder kids,
if they don't quite care about the condition of the prison where we're serving bids.
Once I escape my skin cell,
I won't be banging on the bars of soap that I dropped into my living hell.
The seemingly indestructable knuckles of my fists are clean,
keeping eyes wide open and bulging out like Mr. Bean.
Misdemeanors made to look like felonies, the prison queen,
is existing in his own filth and feeling no guilt it seems.
It's a dream with cheetah speed we're chasing after, some are running quick.
Track teams want me to lead, but face the fact...y'all can't catch up to it.
Pace at your own pace on this race track, you'll eventually get lapped,
on your last leg while stretching. My aggression,
is just a lack of serotonin. Plug the jack of your telephone in to the wall,
so I can call your bluff...just to say, "What's up?"
"How ya doin'?"
Now I've ruined the beautiful sound of silence.
Won't get quiet until the voices in my head come down with laryngitis.
Talking, talking, talking, talking...So much to say, so little sense to make,
bedposts get chopped off once innocence gets raped.
Close the curtains and drapes, pull down the blinds,
cover your ears, block your nose and mouth, shut your eyes.
There's a blackbox in my head which is actually read,
when I crash and burn it keeps a record of every last word I said.
It goes "one" for the finger-fuck, "two" for the peace sign,
"3 strikes, you're out!" Casey's at bat with unloaded guns in his mouth.

Chorus:
As the day grows old,
we pave this road.
When we take control,
we will save your soul.

Slug:
And it burns, just like that famous ring of fire.
Sing to inspire, try to loosen up the dirt that clings to the tires.
Establish some traction, lingering behind the curtain of satisfaction.
I'm certain of nothing, Mr. Knew-it-all,
late for my disorientation, fate glued to the wall.
The pain felt could make the brain melt,
heard the shackles on the ankles, mistook the sound as slaybells.
Remember that song called Big Pimpin'?
It made me want to dance around but I had no type of rhythm.
Then I thought, I should write a song called Sick Pimpin',
'cause I know a lot of beautiful psycho inspiteful women.
Now I'm that cat that tiptoes on this pads,
with the gauze on track, and so as not to cause damage.
Hello Miss Management, time decision-making process,
trying to catch the breath I couldn't find 'til I lost it.
Stand upon a rock I couldn't climb if I tried,
with a fist full of issues, a bag full of pride.
Well alright, I'mma write all the problems on the board,
if anyone can answer 'em, I'll let them drive my Ford.
I quit searching for the truth 'cause the truth can change,
it all depends on how the furniture's arranged.
If you don't take a moment to sit in the chair,
then there wasn't any point of ever puttin' it here.
And I'm lovin' every minute as the day gets vivid,
while I'm twistin' up the lyrics of existence.
And it goes, "one" for the wife, and "two" for the house,
"three strikes, you're out!"
Now please remove my life from your mouth.

Chorus



Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Trite
Album: Sick of Waiting Tables... I'm having identity crises.
"No we're not." "Yes we are."
I'm having identity crises.
"No we're not." "Yes we are."

I don't have a feeling that hasn't been felt, feeling on my felt tip,
showing my hand...revealing what I've dealt with.
And how I'm dealing. Cut the deck. Evenly distribute the pieces
of shit talking during our disputes on weekends.
We can sing along to each other's song, right?
Even if the interpretation is wrong, right?
Just make sure you don't bring the wrong mike,
'cause I don't care about meeting a boyfriend we can ALL like (nah!).
This song is called Trite, hope ya like it.
Could've substituted your name with the title but I decided that I'd keep it private.
Violent dream sequences just seem endless.
I can see myself making a heated entrance
to your workplace with a smirk on my face.
And a tongue in my cheek. And a gun in my reach.
Sneaking naked photos of myself under the seats of your co-workers,
putting a knife to your throat and screaming out "I won't hurt her!"
They're like, "Let her go!"
And I'm like, "Let her grow!"
Prisoners wouldn't listen to this. Their rational side was out on a furlough.
I like turbo-nuclear family affairs.
I want a wife, a house, and two and a half mistresses to call when I'm not there.
Then hang up the phone, and have my wife call up the phone company,
and ask the phone company guy "why???"

And he's like, "Ma'am...well, maybe you just don't know how to talk."
And she's like, "damn...well...wanna fuck me?"
"Yeah of course."

See? Case closed. And he knows how to trace calls,
So I can't make cranks saying, "I hate ya'll!"
I throw baseballs at my mirror, break walls a tear a-
nother page out of my diary, throwing it from the eighth floor 'til I hear a
pin drop. Unsuspecting pallbearers are in shock.
They know I'm about to kill myself with a sling shot.
They bring rocks for ammunition,
steal my Lifetime magazines and then cancel my subscription.
Their hands are just itching to scratch my clean records.
My rap sheets are infected, now I can't be President???
I just HAVE to be elected! I ask for just a second chance.
The answer back was "Kid, you never did in the first place."

Speaking of that, give me my blue ribbons back and anything that is mine.
Waiting for a nice guy who can't make it to the finish line.
When I die you won't recognize the picture buried inside the obituary,
but it'll say, "Bye, I miss you very much."

I'm always one for last words at departing time,
in a million years is when this dead star will shine.
Say my fuckin' name. Nope. Say my fuckin' name. Nope.
You don't...know what to call me so you don't.
You don't you don't call me.
You don't you don't call me.


Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Oliver Twisted
Album: Sick of Waiting Tables... Here I am. Crouched in the corner. Hiding from the light seeping out from under the door.

Reminiscing of when I was living in fear, "Is he here yet?"
I feel sweat building up on my upper back.
Children are under attack with every question mark.
When testing starts, hearts burn and stomachs knot.
Inner organs begin to morph in to dinnerless orphans asking for more things to digest.
"But Oliver!"
But, I love her.
"You do?"
I guess.
"What part...ALL of her?"
Yeah...except when she tempts men.

You know those uncontrollable feelings and thoughts, accept them.
Now I accept when she tempts men to extend
platonic handshakes. SEE? I'm all hung up on sex again,
And untrusting. "Is she still talking to HIM?!"

I'm hung up. Used to be off the hook.
Picked up girls and read their motives like an awful book.
"Put them down!" Fast but gently
to maintain a crass entry level position. Last century, I had several decisions
to make before the new millenium
to secure finances. As for dollars, did I make a mil or any? Ummmm...
Check the public records. Freedom of Information
Act 1, Scene 2, third page, fourth paragraph, fifth sentence, sixth word, seventh letter,
"Gee...seems like I ain't make any,"
and I'm stuck clutching onto my very last penny...
loafer. Searching every crevice of the sofa,
warning him not to get any closer.
I need some space to breathe. But he's making me
shovel the snow, cut the grass, and rake the leaves.
Take these responsibilities and shove 'em!
These working boots weren't made for running...
your landscaping business. My hands are shaking hidden fists, holding a dead fish.
Breaking limp wrists and listening for lisps.
Smack the speech impediments out your mouth piece.
I'm all alone in the foster home, killing myself with the housekeys.



Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Eviction Notice
Album: Personal Journals Fuckin' doin' it.
This song is called Eviction Notice, it's a two-parter.
It's about how drugs are the gateway to fun and flat laugh lines.

There's effort in her smile and it shouldn't be that way,
her last days of being snuffed out in an ashtray that's pricely.
Trying to intercept the passing away, I've asked nicely,
but I've learned not to feed the hand that bites me.
This morning, the cradle rocks the hand,
as I bang on pots and pans, she's just
playing in her warning label box again.
She wants a man I can look up to, a role model to come through,
don't bother unpacking your car.
Cyanogen filled thrill sticks, this girl will spit fire,
got me doing pirouettes over her guilt trip wire.
I still skip by a landmine or two, see I've learned the landscape,
all the while practicing my firm handshake,
hair trigger-finger itch to spark any conversation,
set explosive personalities, don't want deadly confrontation.
What happens in between her lips, she needs to fix more than she knows,
her friend's a bitch and needs to go.
There's a note on the door (a note on the door, a note on the door).
Eviction notice.

Listen, one of us is leaving, and when I say 'us,' I mean you!
You're leaving! You're leaving. You're leaving.

I'm in the house ya'll! I'm in the house ya'll!
And ain't no little piece of paper gonna kick me out ya'll! What?!
I'm in the house! I'm in the house!
And ain't no legal seperation gonna kick my ass out.

I'm in the house ya'll! I'm in the house ya'll!
And ain't no new boyfriend gonna kick me out ya'll! Fuck that!
I'm in the house! What? I'm in the house!
Ain't no snot-nosed brat gonna kick my ass out.

Pick me! Please leave me be, leave me. Please leave me. Believe me, please!
Please leave me be, leave me. Please leave me. Please believe me. Leave me be.

This song is called Eviction Notice, it's a two-parter.
Basically, it's about how sacrifice and vices
will invite themselves to an overstayed welcome
at your haunted house parties. Fun times.

There's effort in her smile and it shouldn't be like that,
her final evenings have her drowning in a nightcap,
and that's costly. Trying to keep her on the right track,
I ask softly, but she just says, "Back off me!"
and I've learned to space her private respect.
She breeds some room to need and every afternoon proceeds
to mix her liquid sitter while preparing baby food to feed.
She wants a man I can look up to, a mentor, fuck you!
Get your things packed.
Yes kids, the poison is the message in the bottle.
Before the dawn, she'll have to kill
all fetal positions by ingesting a morning-after pill.
Crawling fast until I get rewarded for how good I behave,
while practicing my good-bye wave. Should I stay
after planning my escape routes and shouting out,
"Is there a lifeguard in the lighthouse?"
to the rescue bottle, mouth to mouth, between her lips she sips.
She needs a fix more than she knows, her friend's a bitch
and there's a note on the door.
Eviction notice.

Fun times, fun times. Fun times, fun times, fun times...



Artist: Sage Francis
Title: Pitchers of Silence
Album: Personal Journals I never held a funeral for that big part of me that died.
I need to put these thoughts to rest. I need to find a peace of mind.
I need to piece my mind, find a piece of mind to rest in.
Need to find someone to confide in, and with the rest I need to start restin'.
Needless to say, I couldn't hide.
Fifteen grown men shouldn't cry.

Had I known then what I know now.
Had I thought now what I knew then...
I might still be human
with all the little stupid fix-ins.
As I fix sins and vixens vick souls,
stitch clothes for the characters they play then switch roles.
Nail me to the cross dress.
The holy cloth costs less.
I'd toss less
if I still had your soft breasts to rest my head on.
Since you've been gone,
I recalled my issues with problems and hate
but I can't exactly remember the model or make.
Now glass bottles break in my death grip.
I'm about to take the next quick exit and end this head trip.
My bed's stripped of its blankets, comforters, pillows and sheets,
but I might have to peel off all my skin to remove your scent in order to sleep.

I had my highs and lows.
When on top, I let you peek out over my nose.
Sitting on my shoulders and I suppose if I had a backbone,
you might still be here.
My skin is filthy...
from my lows when you weren't there. But to keep from feeling guilty,
I collected the dirt (collected the dirt)...Kept it piling up.
Now Mr. Feel Nothing saves his tears inside of a cup
and he drinks (and he drinks). And he forgets that he's an asshole.
Jealous of his ghosts and doubts he even has a soul.

My secret pleasures have my inner demons gossiping.
I'm a ghost writer for the horrorcore lyrics my personal monsters sing.

I'm sitting in a stranger's tub...
with all my clothes on...shivering...considering the dangers of love.

They get half of what I have to give...IF THAT.
It's all about the packaging. They're distracted by the gift rap.

Predictable. Easy to manipulate.
They're foreshadow puppets and I'm waiting for their strings to break.

The pillars that once held up my halfway house have been taken out.
I'm in my last days now.
There's a change coming soon.
I just want to crawl back into my mother's womb.
I need a comfort zone,
But obviously I need to find another home
to call my own...and always return to
and I want it to be you (I want it to be you).

I sit and stare, zone out, think a lot and never sleep,
creating memories to remember and then I forget to eat.
Went to the street you used to live on, staring at the bedroom window of your old home
with puppy eyes...waiting for God to throw me a bone.

I'd settle for one more goodbye kiss while I settle for less.
I'm unsettled at best. Sulking while abandoning settlements.
Insulting my companions intelligence...conversing with baby talk.
Practicing mind games. Rehearsing with playful thought.

It's the way we fought that made my blood bubble then turn cold,
when you made me walk through rain and mud puddles on a dirt road.
It left me so messy,
forget me...not.

I've got more mud to sling...

Shot.
"Through the heart, and your to blame, you give love a bad name."
Post Tue Apr 08, 2003 9:48 pm
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maxamillion



Joined: 05 Sep 2002
Posts: 1040
Location: The Netherlands
 Reply with quote  

Thanks!!

That's real cool cause I just got the sick of waiting tables album last week, I know a bit late but better late then never!!!!
Post Wed Apr 09, 2003 8:11 am
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master



Joined: 07 Apr 2003
Posts: 28
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"My bed's stripped of its blankets, comforters, pillows and sheets,
but I might have to peel off all my skin to remove your scent in order to sleep. "

That's priceless, man!
Post Wed Apr 09, 2003 1:38 pm
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Nope



Joined: 23 Jan 2003
Posts: 1916
 Reply with quote  

thanks sage...talk about going the extra mile

word
Post Wed Apr 09, 2003 2:25 pm
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Zarahustra



Joined: 05 Dec 2002
Posts: 55
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yeah THaaaank yoooooooooooooooouuuuuuuu,

i just downloaded most of em from winmx :) ...


but i have an exuse..

i cant get a hold of the cd's,,, how sad
Post Thu Apr 10, 2003 2:27 pm
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Sage Francis
Self Fighteous


Joined: 30 Jun 2002
Posts: 21581
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I do mail outs for all of my cds
Post Thu Apr 10, 2003 7:05 pm
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Zarahustra



Joined: 05 Dec 2002
Posts: 55
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oh maybe i got it wrong , so you do mail them to jolly young finland?

peace n all that shit,

"The judge" (can you work it out name-knower?)
Post Fri Apr 11, 2003 6:28 am
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Sage Francis
Self Fighteous


Joined: 30 Jun 2002
Posts: 21581
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no, but HHI does international orders
Post Fri Apr 11, 2003 12:10 pm
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Zarahustra



Joined: 05 Dec 2002
Posts: 55
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:oops:


my stomach will start bleading thanks to this..
Post Fri Apr 11, 2003 1:39 pm
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OM3N



Joined: 30 Jun 2002
Posts: 1297
Location: Thailand
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" I fed that Aussie slut some Vegamite..."
I never understood what you were saying here, what the fuck is Vegamite!?
Thanks for the lyrics by the way.
Post Fri Apr 18, 2003 5:59 am
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fra



Joined: 18 Apr 2003
Posts: 2
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horrible stuff
Post Fri Apr 18, 2003 6:05 am
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onefortynine



Joined: 07 Mar 2003
Posts: 38
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http://www.vegemite.com
Post Tue Apr 22, 2003 3:49 pm
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DM



Joined: 05 Jul 2002
Posts: 6371
Location: www.NERDTORIOUS.com
.......  Reply with quote  

Sage, how about lyrics to The Write? At a show you told me, "maybe one day..."

abacus
Post Fri May 02, 2003 11:11 pm
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Woody



Joined: 02 Mar 2003
Posts: 46
Location: Hartland, MI
i'm addicted  Reply with quote  

sage,
i've been absolutely useless for the past week because i am devoting all my time to memorizing all your lyrics. it's terrible. I can't concentrate on my lame homework. I can't even bring myself to listen to any other music.
Post Wed May 14, 2003 6:10 pm
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T-Wrex
p00ny tang


Joined: 30 Jun 2002
Posts: 6403
Location: Detroit, Michigan
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Sage Francis wrote:
I do mail outs for all of my cds

Do you do returns/exchanges?! :-P

Something odd happened to my Sick Of Waiting Tables.. somehow, it seems that some mold has started to grow between the plastic of the disc and the magnetic foil which the data is recorded on.. As the mold slowly spreads, I can listen to less and less of the songs..
Post Wed May 21, 2003 12:31 am
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