Demons

by Adam Balbo

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credits

released November 14, 2014

Adam Balbo: guitar, vocals, harmonica
Andrew Skewes-Cox: drums, percussion

Artwork: Sara Lautman

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Adam Balbo Oakland, California

Get in touch about anything. adambalbo at gmail dot com

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Track Name: Demons
I fought with some demons.
They were scary and mean.
They take shit from no one,
especially not some fuck-up punk, like me.
I tried to ignore them.
But they showed up everyday.
At first, I asked them nicely,
“Demons, please go away.”

Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
What ransom must I pay.
Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
Demon, just go away.

Now, demons are a persistent lot.
They follow me everywhere.
No matter where the hell I end up,
Demons will be there.
Cairo or Brasilia.
New York or LA.
Brussels, Beijing, or Washington,
Or the San Francisco Bay.

Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
What ransom must I pay.
Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
Demon, just go away.

After wrestling with the demons,
I now have resigned.
No plea or argument will help.
I just gaze into their eyes.
The demons, they stare right back at me
With inexhaustible resolve.
Maybe they’ll get sick of me,
and my live will carry on.

Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
What ransom must I pay.
Demon, demon, demon, demon, demon, be gone.
Demon, just go away.
Track Name: Hard To Fucking Imagine
Like cupid with his stupid arrow.
Tipped with either gold or lead.
He shoots his target dutifully.
That shit goes straight to his head.
One tip sharp and paralyzing.
All reason, it is shred.
The other blunt, almost poisonous
That fill you full of dread.

So, I'll grab my narcotics.
You reach for your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.

The lights were drawn.
The deck was stacked.
The dealer wore a smirk.
You commented derisively
On the pattern of his shirt.
Although the critique was justified,
I asked you, Is it worth
Pissing off the dealer
And loosing all respect you've earned.

I grab my narcotics.
You reach for your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.
I grab my narcotics.
You twiddle with your phone.
It's hard to fucking imagine
Feeling more alone.
Track Name: Do You Like It?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Robin sits on his head?

Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Mika documents breakfast?

Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Connor shows us his peter?

Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Robin sits on his head?

Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Mika documents breakfast?

Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it?
Do you like it when Connor shows us his peter?
Track Name: A Dollar's Worth
An article of faith, like the virgin birth.
Burnt pedals strewn across the wicked earth.
Think shit’s fucked up now? It could get worse.
Who asked you what a dollar’s worth.

A picture spews a thousand words.
Your talk’s as good as a week-old turd.
Blood, sweat, and tears. That shit’s called work.
Just don’t ask me what a dollar’s worth.

A silver tongue. A broken heart.
A golden egg. A sack of farts.
Let the early birds catch a thousand worms.
Have you asked them what a dollar’s worth?

A string of shells. A flock of sheep.
Life’s expensive. Death is free.
It shall be done, no matter how absurd.
Just don’t ask me what a dollar’s worth.

Money swears. The quants won't demur.
A penny saved. Plutus observes.
If greed is good, then God’s a jerk.
Go ask Him what a dollar’s worth.
Track Name: In Their Grip
Fasting in the desert.
Forty days, same as Moses did.
Swept away by some spirit.
Three shots to make a bid.

I won’t make excuses for being idle or being useless.
The demons want me in their grip.

Hungry for some bread
Out in the wilderness.
Starving for the word
that passes gently through the lips.

I won’t make excuses for being idle or being useless.
The demons want me in their grip.

Standing atop the temple,
Where some say they tossed James.
Asked to jump out to the rocks
Like a test or a petty game.

I won’t make excuses for being idle or being useless.
The demons want me in their grip.

High upon the mountain,
On the road to Jericho.
Promised all before me
At the mere cost of the soul.

I won’t make excuses for being idle or being useless.
The demons want me in their grip.
Track Name: Shit Is So Fucking Sad
Who's to blame for all the pain? Just wait and eternity
From unspeakably horrible shit carried out with impunity
To subtle transgressions, well-meaning, unintentional idiocy

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit is so fucking sad.

Cynically hoarding all heroes. Have you no dignity?
Gleefully peddling paranoid myths. It's belittling.
Shit is depressingly familiar all across humanity.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit is so fucking sad.

Persist in the struggle, the search for redeeming qualities.
From the glaringly obvious, to the painfully tedious, joy it brings.
The only remedy, grasping for something bigger than me.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit is so fucking sad.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit is so fucking sad.