Atmosphere Gotta Lotta Walls Lyrics

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 nothin' 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 a war 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 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 lookin' for a reservoir 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

Chorus 4x
And this house
Has gotta lotta walls
But only very few mean anything to you

No shock value - to titallate
Far from shallow - So get it straight
Blacktop, sidewalk, and the street
Cuz life is priceless
And talk is cheap
And as he sits in his four-cornered room
Following the tune, born to consume
Carefully learning and analzying the lyrics you use
Finally realising that humility is a ruse
Scared love don't make none
If these walls could speak, they'd peep about the fake ones.
Watchin this man, fallin off of this plan
Underacheiving, so that he can understand

[Backwards]
What's up baby? How you doin? I hate the sound of my own voice, and I've been invited here to distract myself from the fact that I wrote all of this garbage!
[Backwards]

Chorus 2x

So who did your tattoos? That's nice.
Who built your taboos? That's life.
If he had a glass pipe he'd 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
He keeps his outlook grim
Taps his foot to the rhythm of original sin
Throw his balls to the wind, try to knock down these pins
He'll keep swingin from the hair above his chin
Till he finds his soul in the fifty-cent bin
The price of the pay-phone escalates
Fake smile when he takes home one of his dates
He could write another hate-poem for one of you to break
Or maybe stay calm and wait for that earthquake
Still surrounded by the fire and the water
Trying to honor this empire's daughter
Still answering questions you're afraid to ask
Still believin' that God's gonna save his ass

Chorus 4x

And if you knew him better, he'd ask for some time
Cuz he's lookin' for a reservoir 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

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