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letra de my way - dirty dike

[intro]
door..
[verse]
yo.. tuesday, thursday, wednesday, a day, a daze
turn up on a tuesday telling you the planet’s yours
pack your thoughts, you’re gallivanting with this astronaut
crash the borderland, don’t settle back till the crack of dawn, stretch your back & you’re relaxed. pack a mack of swam
so write my name in lower-case, phone your mates & tell them james broke his sober stage
overly cagey, never spoken when i won’t engage
i smoke all day& play the broken casio, you know?
the brain
thе brain’s strange, it lays lazy in the canister
stragglеrs off the freight train who paint in front of cameras
a tab of acid adaptive to manic character
start a massive flash, in a manner regarded as amateur
mr. wag the theatrics, a bag of spanners
chuck them in the galaxy & saturate the bangers!
and i ain’t watching for your day job
i’m polishing my rocket, for this polyphonic take off
probably never stated what you wanted, but you ain’t got
rather watch your mates pop & celebrate with hate, what
wonder around this land of doubt with infinite potential
you ain’t for hand me downs, i’m living through this pencil
feel an instrument that was spirtual potential
see you try & mirror all the shimmer in your wet pool
it’s different. i said it’s different
and i ain’t here to hate, i’m here to separate your system
[hook]
turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! my mate!

turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! why mate?

turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! my mate!
[verse 2]
prawns hanging off the chain with the lobster attached
cold sagging, with a face like a colostomy bag
-get off me slag!
you fly b-tches never get me
i like my fried chicken crispy on a jetski!
under melody wherever’s next to ecstasy
and treat the village park bench like a leather seat
age whatever, make you clever, if you dare to speak
i’d rather perish with a sentence, than an empty squeak
bucket stashed, we packing nothing but this nimble hash
crashing dummies into motherf-cking rubbish bags!
i made 20 g today, and there ain’t nothing that the police can take let alone say!
james dreams in scenes he made
and takes pieces to clean the safe in the secret caves
i believe jesus would dream with aids and best mates with the people you hate

[hook]
turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! my mate!
turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! why mate?

turn up on a tuesday
acting like it’s friday!
tying up my boot lace
my way, my way!
slapping off your toupee
backing of your booze mate
whose mate are you mate?
my mate! my mate

- dirty dike

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