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Barfly (prod. Onra)

from Portraits by Chris Orrick

/

lyrics

You know that feeling right before the shrooms hit?
Impending doom, living spinning, like what did I do?
Am I the only motherfucker who's living under this moon?
Feels like it's been twenty-nine years that I've been stuck in this room
Try turning, spin the chair, you know how little I know?
Eyes burning, smell my hair filled with cigarette smoke
And the lights are barely on and I'm fighting back the feeling
I'll be fighting this till dawn, maybe sleeping on the lawn
And don't look in the mirror (no), you know those issues clear up
Quick, you about to tear up (no), you see that shadow coming closer
Getting nearer
Get reckless when I'm introspective
With my hand across my left tit, I swear to God tomorrow
Morning after breakfast
I'm gonna change, I'm gonna tell all my confessions
But for now I'm talking to this whiskey bottle till there's nothing left


I'm a bartenders best friend
A little bit too open with confessions
And I've been charged to protect him
And use my scars as my weapons

There's not an addict in this world with no excuses
Temptation and desire, the scent of it seduces
The skill of self-control I've found is hidden and elusive
And I'll never find the truth if I remain too reclusive
So let me go on my adventure
Keep my excitement to a minimum, expectations tempered
Never remembered one as cold as this December
So, pull up a chair and let it warm you to your center
Moderation's for the virtuous
Take a look around, you know the devil tends to lurk in us
Don't be afraid when the vultures start to circle us
The lot of us will die never knowing what our purpose was
So have a drink on it or sleep on it
The tensions thick enough that you could roll your fucking weed on it
You're always in the future when you live in the past
'Cuz bar time is fifteen minutes fast


I'm a bartenders best friend
A little bit too open with confessions
And I've been charged to protect him
And use my scars as my weapons

credits

from Portraits, released May 4, 2018

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about

Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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