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michelangelo, ecd - topiary creatures lyrics

i never called it fine art
it’s advertising with cherubs and forlorn saints on the stone ceiling of which i’m not interested or even vaguely aware of
it’s another’s religious fetish;
and it’s tacky as h*ll
but it swiftly becomes my will when the medicis pay the bills
the medici’s pay the bills
the medici’s pay the bills

i’m a chameleonic propagandist
i can pitch, perform and lie
pitch, perform and lie
quieting inner, fervent atheism for shelter, security, milk, honey and paint supplies
it’s a job, it’s a craft, it’s design that the materials obscure, and i’m the first to be a shill when the medicis pay the bills
the medicis pay the bills
the medicis pay the bills

what’s the point of a bed if you can’t sleep at night?
what’s the point of a house if you can’t live with yourself?
what’s the point of these things if you can’t stomach to think, you didn’t even have to sell your soul?

a life if but just one vote
lest the history books immortalize and multiply a corpse’s ballot upwards of a dozen, a hundred, one*thousand times
such legacy anxiety
but what do i owe the future?
i only ask because it’s too late
i know deep, deep down that i am only what i create
what happens when the context dissolves with the world, and that ceiling is my mirror?
no new caveats, no framing, no translations
no stories, no reasons, no history to tell
no condivi, no ghirlandaio, no caprese
no florence, no raphael, no romans
no pope, no normal excuses, no passions
no sk!lls, no medicis, no bills
just the work

- topiary creatures lyrics

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