26.9.08

The LP is a lie.

Sorry about not actually getting this up on Thursday, I had a busy day that started about 12 hours ago. It's now Friday, so yeah... anyways, I present to you a poem:

Weather permitting, the train wreck begins
With a soggy early-morning invitation to sin:
Your mother says goodbye to her last living kin
Over the phone her voice echoes of tin, and D7 → D7? → I don't think that's right, man...
→ Alright, alright. Uno mas, eh?

Weather permitting, the train wreck begins
With a soggy early-morning invitation to sin:
The rattle-tattle tale procession of rin tin tin
And Jimmy, they're getting Richard back his courage again.
I think I'm confused, but the words cover it up
Like the mist over this island, let's color it up
→ pssh, pssh, pssh Why can't we all be purple?
Instead some of us is wheels and some others is gerbils

You know it too, it ain't quite right
You feel yourself left but the nation goes right
The nation goes, “fight, fight fight!”
Man, you gotta be like Mike and bite.
You bumpin this beat, you nod your head to its truth
You swerve down the street, wish you was asleep could be loose
But your mother said her last goodbye to you, her kin,
And over the phone her voice echoed of tin and → crash!

You think you're in heaven
Smell those cookies mom made when you were eleven
Right before dad walked out, shaken and pissed
Wait, is that him walking right there through the mist?
Dad?