WHY? - IV. The surgeon nervously goes on, he never claimed to be God. (Official Video)

Описание: WHY? - 'AOKOHIO'

Pre-order/stream/download: https://lnk.to/why_iv

Out August 9, 2019 on Joyful Noise Recordings

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Directors: James Siewert, Auden Lincoln Vogel
Cinematography: James Siewert, Auden Lincoln Vogel
Assistant Director: Alex Knapp
Assistant Camera: Jesse LoCascio
Production Assistants: Jack French, Bobby Tewksbury, Andrew Bellows
Executive Producer: Miles Joris Peyrafitte
Producer: Brent Benedict
Camera Rig fabrication assistance: Kris Perry, Chrissy Rivera

Starring: Yoni Wolf, David Rubenstein, Grace Weir
Editing: Stephen Gurewitz, James Siewert
Visual Effects: James Siewert
Animation: Auden Lincoln Vogel, James Siewert, Elis Ekdahl
Color: Joseph Mastantuono

Special Thanks: Tony Stone, Doug Max Stone, Fiona Wood, Rigo Garay, Chris Skotchdopole, Ben Eisenkop, Marco Andre, Glass Eye Pix, Eastern Effects, Anything But Costumes, Good Post, Sundog Solar & Cider, Clifton Natural, Foods
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LYRICS:
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IV. The surgeon nervously goes on, he never claimed to be God.


Narcissistic Lamentation

Everyone wants something—
everyone I meet.
Everyone wants something
from me.


Krevin’

So what if I’m rocking a cappella going hella slow.
You never know the depth until you dive the trench.
Coat open, drenched. Need a coaster, sit the bench.
Penchant for pretentious dribble— it’s a cinch.

Lend a hand to man on death or bear the stench.
Rap faster, demand your face be cast in plaster.
Last one from the past become the future master—
or accept the bald-face disaster.

Krevin’ sixty seconds from an iPhone 6s. Blessings.


The Crippled Physician (feat. Lala Lala & Gia Margaret)

In bed with cold,
brittle and old like
the Dead Sea scrolls.
His weak pulse
shakes his whole
frame. Shame.
Same bones and sloped
narrow shoulders of a
woman on a wagon
heading west,
bound homeward.

Folks he knows
say he’s gotta let go,
be released of the
anger at least. Jeez.
But it's burrowed
deep in his soul,
hidden like a
pebble in snow.

Baby's been
born with a beard,
worn and haggard,
weird and jagged in crowds.
He stammers profoundly
even amongst friends,
and locks up like a
tin ornithopter
too tightly wound.

He’s lonesome and wanting,
groping for something,
foraging closeness
from shadows retreating.
And like a pro-
foundly confused
infant in the endless cold
night, he finally finds his own
thumb, and numbs
himself back into sleep.

He says,
“What an old and strange
son's life is mine.
When I come off stage,
they stand in line
to meet me.”

The surgeon nervously goes on.
He never claimed to be God…

“Just a vessel for impulse,
pressing into several directions,
dressing and undressing
the wound I'm used to
in a how-to on YouTube.”

“Who do I tell the truth to,
stressing and confessing
from the Jetta on Nokia
through Bluetooth?”


Ustekinumab

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