Colour Bandits by KickThePJ Lyrics
Sitting before you is not a man, but merely a cracked shell,
A shell of the lightest pastels to the darkest hues,
Housing burning reds, spirited greens and muted blues,
with no motive, reason, or rational behind his ways,
Except to desaturate worlds and leave completely unphased,
Do not be amazed, for Colour Bandits have no morals these days.
They'll extract until colour no longer crosses against their path, laughing sweetly as they make luminosity feel their calm,
Evasive wrath. Head to toe in matte,
For which is almost completely unmatched.
Apart from a spectrum, so brilliantly and viciously dispatched.
A bandit's worst nightmare in a void would be to dye,
As all the colours come rushing and bleed deep,
Proceeding to stain their lives, with strokes of beryl,
Turquoise tints and compliments of shades of plum,
A mixture of something new,
Unknown to man what exactly they'll become,
Some believe they leave behind their soul, black and white,
Like a mortal wound, a gaping hole,
Others say they become something royal, a supreme jade,
A strengthened cobalt,
I can't fathom a Bandit becoming something so noble.
Blooming bursts of brightened tones make the bandits blush, crushed colours stricken ill,
And an ill defence it is against mountains and moss,
A golden gloss, at a complete loss, gasping for air,
As he struggles, ensnared by colour.
He clenches and tightens but to no avail,
suffocating to an unimaginable scale,
his demise is a veil of crimson,
An impenetrable prison of iridescence,
swallowing the mere presence of a Bandit of value.
The chestnut makes him considerably more heavy,
weighing him down, as the cerulean splashes engulf him,
Causing him to drown.
The scarlets burn endlessly,
Whilst tightly he's held by mint green,
Squeezing tighter and tighter.
It's a perilous sight your eyes would never let you believe,
And if they did your body would stiffen up straight
And never let you leave.
Standing before you is not a man, but an occupied shell,
Defeated, his mind in a daze his body in a coma,
He rests for just a moment drifting slowly in the chroma,
And Falls to his already weakened knees and
Contemplates the sweet relief of becoming something more.
More or less.
A shell of the lightest pastels to the darkest hues,
Housing burning reds, spirited greens and muted blues,
with no motive, reason, or rational behind his ways,
Except to desaturate worlds and leave completely unphased,
Do not be amazed, for Colour Bandits have no morals these days.
They'll extract until colour no longer crosses against their path, laughing sweetly as they make luminosity feel their calm,
Evasive wrath. Head to toe in matte,
For which is almost completely unmatched.
Apart from a spectrum, so brilliantly and viciously dispatched.
A bandit's worst nightmare in a void would be to dye,
As all the colours come rushing and bleed deep,
Proceeding to stain their lives, with strokes of beryl,
Turquoise tints and compliments of shades of plum,
A mixture of something new,
Unknown to man what exactly they'll become,
Some believe they leave behind their soul, black and white,
Like a mortal wound, a gaping hole,
Others say they become something royal, a supreme jade,
A strengthened cobalt,
I can't fathom a Bandit becoming something so noble.
Blooming bursts of brightened tones make the bandits blush, crushed colours stricken ill,
And an ill defence it is against mountains and moss,
A golden gloss, at a complete loss, gasping for air,
As he struggles, ensnared by colour.
He clenches and tightens but to no avail,
suffocating to an unimaginable scale,
his demise is a veil of crimson,
An impenetrable prison of iridescence,
swallowing the mere presence of a Bandit of value.
The chestnut makes him considerably more heavy,
weighing him down, as the cerulean splashes engulf him,
Causing him to drown.
The scarlets burn endlessly,
Whilst tightly he's held by mint green,
Squeezing tighter and tighter.
It's a perilous sight your eyes would never let you believe,
And if they did your body would stiffen up straight
And never let you leave.
Standing before you is not a man, but an occupied shell,
Defeated, his mind in a daze his body in a coma,
He rests for just a moment drifting slowly in the chroma,
And Falls to his already weakened knees and
Contemplates the sweet relief of becoming something more.
More or less.