a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

letra de over mars - marsy mars

verse 1
i was born into exile, native alien in my own
neighbourhood, my home in banishment
where life’s script is scribed in neatly written wrath
in a book whose back cedes no answers
“in such an end, there’s little order to transcend,”
i thought as i pedalled houston, beneath a sky salmon hueing
monet’d as such by the flames of discontent fuming in what
were now the ruins of be’rioted downtown
i look on these embеred properties, nеw ruins
where fresh aspiration once roomed and now’s tombed
on the corner flexed a master pastor
trying to dampen with sense the crowd’s ardour of warpath-grade:
“we can always take comfort
in how god looks down on our wild justice paved
that he creates all and only that which he understands”;
then why did god make such a place, in which every thought straight
by an intensity of despairing feeling just riverbends?
order, and what it takes not to abhore it
means f-ck all over mars

chorus [x]
i bet you never thought a corner boy
would or could think like this;
the corner boys neither
i’ve been around the world, and yet
i’ve never gone anywhere
verse 2
the preacher sang: “we, by fate imprisoned, hold the key
to freedom truest – for still in will, so free are we.”
i was reminded, see, of a man – no mere man -i knew well
he who nutted rise to me
my dad was a man who by that maxim ran that
“certain men make their own rules.”
that maxim he tended til his life was ended
his blasting forecasted in the margins of his playbook
surely that was not his meant-to-be, not the
fruit he sugar’d up still from freedom’s tree
that he peeled so carefully, and, in his fashionless
embrace of fatherly responsibility, passed to me?
without both order and the means to transcend it
we are man and we are not-man
doomed to mystery, chaos unabnegating, an unabating waiting
maybe i take these ideas too seriously
ponder too hotly the matter of my cream mixing through my coffee;
but is that not me? a milk-galactic bead, imprisonedly free
in a slave-copped crop’s world-cup’d, chaotic dark stream?
the preacher lowered his voice
and said “hood maths, it’s the formula to freedom, one
only those who’ve lived among the numbers can write”

verse 3
the preacher said “well, what is written?”
i thought, “around here, nothing or a little less
to keep a record is to let that record test you
and the whims of husbanded justice wet you.”
the preacher said “nothing is written
as jehovah’s life-vine rap is headborn,” and my spirit
was as is dope warmed; that smote dope
by which my people see their futures writ rote
if in such chaos as we live in, nothing can hold
then the chaos cannot the passport of freedom ever ‘terpol;
such chaos as we’re living in, it’s proof of nothing
but that we are free, of all things, from pre-determinacy
i look at what we seem to presume written-in
and then i look at the chaos of the block, in which is brewzing
the cream of chance; the chaos, it is hood maths
and the secrets of the universe are pursed in it
and the preacher said “go! and preach the maths
of the hood far and wide!
tell ‘em mars is right where i always said it was!
right in these neighbourhoods!”
and over the block, over those steaming stores n shops
over the river bend, over where others’ expectations of the degree
to which i can transcend end, over where my imagination can
peregrinate, over mars awaiting, where i can cut leather from comet tail
fashion the dapper from cosmic fabric, and whip dye of the sun
i can faintly hear the words:
“goodbye, my son”

- marsy mars

letras aleatórias

MAIS ACESSADOS