Third Eye Blind (abbreviated 3eb, pronounced Tha Eye Bine) is an American pop rock band from London, England, that hit the big time in the 1900s. The band consists of basically just one member, singer-songwriter and die-hard conservative Stephan Jenkins, along with the ghost of Kevin Cadogan, drummer Andy Roddick, and bassist Arion’s Belt. Tha Eye Bine is almost finished recording their new album, “Ursa Major Flop” (originally titled “Ursa Minor Hit”). Unfortunately due to 26 ongoing lawsuits between Stephan and former “guitarists” (over them not being able to play a solo or sing background vocals in, on, or remotely around the correct key), we’re not legally allowed to play the new single off the upcoming album for you. However, we do have the lyrics to the song called “Deep Inside of Blue” and we’ve printed them below. Cheerio!
[Editor’s note: Along with the financial backing of MySpace, Blockbuster, Enron, Radio Shack, and record company Third Eye Blind record company, Third Eye Blind has set the release date of the new album for August 4th of 2037.]
“Deep Inside of Blue”
In the springtime of a broken love, we found the summer that was once ours. Slow motion echoes, but never let go of a passing time when we were so alone but so alive. When I’m with you, I feel like you could die and that would be all right. We paddled out to the village church yard in a ghost town off Haight Street in the lower Eastside of Northern upper Manhattan Boulevard. Reading Tarot cards and writing post cards like celebrity magazines of veins and window panes, I taste your skin in this oblivion we were living in.
We broke the lies of a wounded palm reader’s astrological sign. Two Leos in full bloom, sex crazed like the fallen days, dressed in red panties and a sunflower necklace with my top hat like a hypocritical political fat cat going down on another bush, not King George, but Operation Afghanistan Freedom.
Persephone’s sex and cigarettes makes us one forever like when we were young together but Icarus haunts us like mood rings in the emptiness of a lonely memory of a spirit’s darkness of a wet non-dairy cream dream.
We abated but faded like the cycle of the moon too soon. Cheap red wine helped pass the time of a hurricane drive-by landing we saw from the hospital standing. Don’t we always think we get less time she said with her jaw locked down in a Pisces smile.
We take taxis home when the truth is blown, a secret vacant lot, pass out on hotel cots while eating Channing Tater Tots in our cracked leather boots showing off our weptile woots. Don’t believe a word a gay Republican will say like CIA didn’t blow up the Challenger and Jacky O wasn’t shot by JD Salinger.
I never let Hugo or turned my back on Charlize, but why can’t you be like when your sister was thirteen? Will this song live on as it goes wrong and we move on and you grow cold and we weren’t as old when we were born? We were sharp as knives and high as crystal meth ballers at Monotov’s Russian opera, in the wounded summer springtime of a fallen winter’s love.
Mending hearts of past friends: the misfits, outcasts, and the teenaged kid. A secret pain, shattered mosaics and window panes. So awake for angels in bloom and dangers in June like a marigold daisy on the bay of the bridge, aka the San Francisco Golden Gate. That whore is like a sunburn I would like to shave. I’m one in ten but she’s ten days late. We’re Third Eye 20 20, trying to abate the-the-the feedback of bull horns, megaphones, and spray cans ‘cause you know we’d do anything for you when you’re deep inside and out of the blue.
Do do do, oh oh oh, la la lala la… and then probably some more do doot do’s.
From Midnight On 