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letra de ed would be - sound of rum

[verse 1]
he was distant, most distant from himself
insistent, wanted more from life for himself
his restrictions were vast, liked to hide from himself
and yes, he made a lot of hype for himself
but it went to his head, like a young child sent to his bed
didn’t spend his pride so his pride spent him instead
believed them loose lips, yappin’ all that loose sh-t
wrappin’ up a loose spliff, his heart said yes to their compliments
he loved it when they flocked around him
loved it when they stopped and found him
jammin’ at the bar post-show and playin’ it humble like
“yeah, safe, yeah, i really appreciate”
but all the while his arrogance got more and more bloated
images inside his mind floated
of how big he would become when he got properly promoted
precocious to the point of being hopeless
he hoped that n0body would notice but me, i noticed

[hook]
he wants a piece of something that doesn’t exist
he wants fame, wants a little weight behind his name
chasing an elusive, turns the lucid to lunacy
everyone around here soon to be something
would-be-has-been’s smiles full of bad dreams
if it ain’t real from the edge to the core
don’t pretend anymore, stop the gimmicks
all about the substance, it’s not about the image

all about the substance, it’s not about the image

[verse 2]
you might be saying words, but you ain’t spitting lyrics
entertaining illusions of gradeur
when his style was, were the truth be told: meager at best
so eager to impress, he makes you feel quite distressed
kind of guy that speaks before he thinks and deeply regrets
the things he says, acts his confidence up
he brags and he boasts, but the one things that matters the most
that being content: lacking severely
so all he sees in front of him are sorry mate’s, not quite’s and nearly’s
he doesn’t understand he’s like – yo, i got it all
the whole package, i got the looks, i got the att-tude
he don’t see to be real you gotta be yourself
not a poorly constructed version of someone else
he’s got colored business cards that picture his face
he could swear it was close enough to taste
it’s a shame he doesn’t know that slow and steady wins the race
it’s a shame he doesn’t know, oh

[verse 3]
i’ve seen this man fall down
he can’t do what he wants to do
he walks ’round getting drunk
jamming at the bar, fast approaching 25 years
weak heart, eyes bleared
jamming in the same ends
he’s chilling with the same friends
life’s going nowhere for him, all he does is blame them
they got lives, they got wives, they got jobs
he’s still in his mum’s yard, feeling lost and caught
he’s on the sniff, he’s on the pills, on the mdma
demons visit him every night, he tries to send them away
but he’s got no prospects, no sk!lls, no talents
he’s got no motivation left, he’s losing his balance
every night he’s f-cked, every morning he’s embarr-ssed
every day it’s the skunk, weed, cess or charas
on the dole, on the madness, on the late-night fisticuffs
an eighth of white’s a pick-me-up for him
he’s getting twisted up within
he wants to change, stuck in his habits though
can’t take the pain of sobriety
kicking up the dust outside this society
addict man, crippled by his own notoriety until
no one wants to chat no more, they think he’s crazy
twenty-eight now and his future’s looking hazy
skunk’s looking up to him like “blaze me, blaze me”
and he’s lying to himself like “system didn’t take me”

[hook]
he wants a piece of something that doesn’t exist
he wants fame, wants a little weight behind his name
chasing an elusive, turns the lucid to lunacy
everybody around here seemed to be something
would-be-has-been’s smiles full of bad dreams
if it ain’t real from the edge to the core
don’t pretend anymore, you need to chill
your trainers are lovely mate, but where’s your f-cking sk!ll?
you might be saying words, but you ain’t spittin’ lyrics at all
it’s all about the substance; it’s not about the image at all
stop these gimmicks
you need to chill
you’ve got very nice clothes, but you ain’t got too much sk!ll

[verse 4]
he plays the back rooms of bars for men whose faces bare scars
suddenly it seems the kids are listening to guitars and drums
it ain’t beats and rhymes, he creeps the streets at times
and imagines how this could have been the sweetest heat you find in the crate
but now it’s too late, he’s consumed with hate
for everyone that’s better than him, tryna write a rhyme
but it’s like the letters jamming in the pen
the ink refuses to spell a sh-t phrase
his heart’s sick with self-praise

- sound of rum

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