🎵 Exile // by Spit Syndicate

4 Contributors Exile Lyrics [Scratches] “I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train It’s dope then you should know the supplier’s name” “Syd city on” “Home sweet home My nine-to-five grind seems to go by slow” “With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror? The world is looking shady, and the future's no clearer, so” “Runaway train of thought, my sore knuckles say Love and hate, huffing shakes straight till I suffocate” “With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror? The world is looking shady, and the future no clearer” “I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train" [Verse 1: Nick Lupi] She said, "I gotta get away from it" Dreams of an escape from it Won't let this city get another day from her Takes solace in the cloak of night, like grave robbers (Uh) Scanning every face, an enemy of the state Watches the world around her in a steady decline (Yeah) Detached from it all, yet her mind is heavy, uh Cartographers couldn't sketch the lines Of the place she's going, nah, they'll never find her Death styles of the young and the beautiful Nightclub cubicles, cocaine cuticles But the glitter don't soothe her soul She feels lost like Rufio, waiting for a cue to go She might've found it, plays it loud Until it drowns it out, and the neighbours come around This is something that you should know Projectiles for the dutiful, Exile: soon, she'll go [Scratches] “I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train It’s dope then you should know the supplier’s name” “Syd city on” “Home sweet home My nine-to-five grind seems to go by slow” “With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror? The world is looking shady, and the future's no clearer, so” “Runaway train of thought, my sore knuckles say Love and hate, huffing shakes straight till I suffocate” [Verse 2: Jimmy Nice] Yeah, he said, "I gotta break Free from this head of mine to where the stars And the road up ahead align", food's good, weather's fine There's no time like the present (Right) And despite the many times he tried to pay it, they never mind He's wearing thin like the set of tyres under him Stop signs he pass shine bright like his petrol light Cartographers couldn't sketch the lines Of the place he's going, nah, they could never find him Demoted from heaven, promoted from hell For thought crime, do his time all alone in a cell Sees it all from his windowsill, lights up with the devil Blows smoke halos with an L He needs a one-way flight to bring him back to life Pad and pencil, gather essentials, pack light The irony of pitch-black skies on a Sunday I'ma get up outta here one day