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letra de odds. - fynch

maybe the soph-m-re effort
will be better
i’m a header with no head whatsoever
i endeavour
to be myself on tracks
beat myself up to the beat on tracks
just relax, young fynch
and let the soul unwind
but my mind is unforgiving and my soul’s unkind
so i’ll find
some even keel to feel
no record deal
purport an image on just keeping it real
on the scratcher
going rasher on 1-88 quid
i’m matter of fact, mostly
i’m just taking the p-ss
never answer
i’m a chancer, an insufferable git
not named chris, but add that ‘t’
i’m a son of a b-tch
on the cl-ssics like a magnum
creamy cool with the steel
just joking
i’m a dreamer, got john lennon appeal
stream of consciousness, obnoxious
one fool of a man
fooling no one but himself
an inescapable plan
to do the least amount of work
and gain all the plaudits
he’s more water on the brain than new orleans
the jazz is going 90 and chap
he can feel the importance
it’s implausible he’d stop
until the mic is discorded
an awesome wave
tessellation in your brain
pure geometry
i’m merely cl-ssifying my philosophy
subconsciously
become myself again
’cause when the day began
i was just plotting my demise
it’s no surprise
that i can’t acclimatise
there’s a mixvape-shaped noose
around this windpipe of mine
but i’ll be fine
as long as i can hold my head
and say ‘so long’ to those
who fill that head with dread
’cause they don’t know their comments stay lodged inside there
so much so that now i’ve got issues with my bed
instead
i whack the xannies out and conk out on the set
refresh reality
and have delusions that i’m a sure bet

i wonder what odds you’d get…

- fynch

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