Grains of Land [ft. P​.​O​.​S]

from by Sandy Pearlman & Bones

/

lyrics

Infatuated with the harvest, we reap what we sow.
Chemicals enhance the yields of the crops that we grow.
So we consume the by-product, that comes with buying product,
and pocket pennies at the cost of our own health.
Then sit around the table and clamour ‘bout our wealth,
and how our quarterly earnings are burning straight through the drought.
I’m smirking to myself, know that wealth is in the mind, body & self.
So will we smuggle the smog? When that’s the purest oxygen?
I breathe carcinogens, an inner city citizen.
Commodities are spillin’ to the punch drunk, and willing.
Pipe dreams bend outta line when its crunch time for billing.
The proof is in the pudding, and it’s looking black as tar.
Scoop an extra large spoonful to fill up your car, and drive far away.
While you’re cruising contemplate how to elevate your mind state
out this real place.

Feeling like a cloud of dust, These grains of land,
Are whistling across what’s soon to be a wasteland,
And i’ve wasted my voice, on siren songs,
So I’m running out of steam trying to iron these wrongs.
Feeling like a sea of rust, these grains of land,
Have almost reached a point past reparation,
Now we’re tasting our choice, The flavours all wrong,
Cause neglect doesn’t need to marinate long.

Infatuated with the next best thing, we plug in,
cause in our mind extending human capability is a win.
For some it’s a sin. They’ll all get left behind,
cause we’ve designed the next step in the evolutionary line.
It’s right there in your pockets,
It’s right there at your desk,
It’s the tone in your ear coming from a circuitry set.
And I’m jaded cause I love it. We’re all a product of it.
But lately we haven’t been putting ourselves above it.
In this sea of social engineering and retweets,
we watch the doomsday clock tick, at the edge of our seats.
The polar caps are cracking and caving under the heat,
somehow it still never feels like a reality.
We coat the wires in rubber and pray our data survives.
I hope at least a pair of specimen outlast the tides,
so when they look up at the sky, sea, sediment and trees,
they see rebuilding requires the efforts of a team.

Feeling like a cloud of dust, These grains of land,
Are whistling across what’s soon to be a wasteland,
And i’ve wasted my voice, on siren songs,
So I’m running out of steam trying to iron these wrongs.
Feeling like a sea of rust, these grains of land,
Have almost reached a point past reparation,
Now we’re tasting our choice, The flavours all wrong,
Cause neglect doesn’t need to marinate long.

(P.O.S. of Doomtree verse)

Feeling like a cloud of dust, These grains of land,
Are whistling across what’s soon to be a wasteland,
And i’ve wasted my voice, on siren songs,
So I’m running out of steam trying to iron these wrongs.
Feeling like a sea of rust, these grains of land,
Have almost reached a point past reparation,
Now we’re tasting our choice, The flavours all wrong,
Cause neglect doesn’t need to marinate long.

credits

from Spare Parts, released September 20, 2016
Vocals: Bones, P.O.S
Production: Sandy Pearlman
Guitar: Keenan Lazich
Mix & Master: Matt Rideout

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about

Sandy Pearlman & Bones Toronto, Ontario

Producer Sandy Pearlman and Wordsmith Bones have been honing their sound since the group formed in 2012. By combining traditional elements of the genre with their love of indie, folk, and even screamo music they have created a distinct and eclectic catalogue of songs. The two are well-established in their community and have a reputation for exceptional beats, quick raps, and grimy house parties. ... more

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