Portugal. The Man - Fantastic Pace

He was born in the first grade, hungry little lion
Swallowed all he saw still, he's barely alive
He was a colorful person, born of some colorful people
Opened up his mouth he poured some colorful speeches
His home was a tar paper palette Tyvek green house

Pumped into the cul de sac, gravel housing his house
Where the living like the drinks are rivers, wells, creeks, oceans, bays
Every year we get a little older found in his ways
Oh, I hope he never grows, grows into nothing
I hope he never grows, grows into nothing

He's not so well behaved
What are we to do?
Get him to the digging, stick him over in the corner
Got a little place out in the crystal fires

No one wants you
No one wants you
No one wants you
What are we to do?

No one wants you
No one wants you
No one wants you
What are we to do?

No one wants you (no one, no one)
No one wants you (no one, no one)
No one wants you (no one, no one)
What are we to do?

No one wants you (no one, no one)
No one wants you (no one, no one)
No one wants you (no one, no one)
What are we to do?
What are we to do?
What are we to do?

Starving empty stare, pushed it down in the parking lots
The valley, lake, cars and the riverbed hang outs
A long way from the little lion in black full-body snow-suits
Snowshoe, Goosebay and neighbors claims on empty lots
Where guns and gold were goals given up given his pace
Below all the giants growing up at fantastic pace
Fantastic pace, fantastic pace, fantastic pace
(Pace, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace)

Written by:
John Baldwin Gourley

Publisher:
Lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

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