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letra de lucky - watsky

it’s the end of a very long week i’m sitting in the 30th row of a 747 from dallas to los angeles
the captain has signaled our final decent, my seat back has returned to the up right position, my tray table has been stowed
i’m finally going home
when a gurgle, under my seat buckle tells me that lunch is gearing up for a second appearance
a frantic search teaches me that delta airlines doesn’t regularly restock seat pockets with sick bags, so i do the only thing logical i can think of, and try to magyar my sky mall catalog into a make shift haversack
but before i can crease the outside edge, my body betrays me, which means that i’m sitting there, wearing my stomach acid as a loose tuxedo, while the entire plane including the hot girls across the aisle whisper and gag, necks crane as we make our torturous decent into lax and as the entire air jumbo jet deplanes slowly around me
a thought crosses my mind, how do you not restock a plane with sick bags you incompetent airline, i’m giving my plastic wings back!
and then a second thought crosses my mind, i think this story is good enough for cosmo, so lucky me for the life experience, lucky no one i know will have to find out about this, lucky the plane didn’t crash, lucky for planes in the first place
i mean if i had thrown up on myself in a covered wagon, some settler would have been all like
“aye! aye we brocus, spocus, a mile back, and if you don’t quit sulking and help pull us we might not be able to ford this river before night fall in which this cause you’re going to smell mighty good to the grizzlies.”
so lucky the atmosphere puts planes on its back
the airs so thick it b-mps against out ears that’s how we hear,lucky there’s so much carbon around
lucky for granite, granite has done big things for us, lucky conditions on this planet were perfect for live c-cktail to turn a couple of atoms into a amoeba, into a cheetah, lucky that one monkey finally got his act together and turned into a dude
don’t forget the vocal chords, the lungs, lucky the opposable thumbs, the disposable mans, and the glands that’s make lanolin that dismantle hand radios and bands that make videos for jams that witty oats to brands and lucky for that one reunion on cape cod where i first had to understand my fathers side of the family
some say if you listen closely to those old wooden hallways you can hear the ghost of woody allen groaning at night
“i’m not dead yet you schmucks.”
the living, they gather around the dining room table, sharing, sharp cl-ss, saying lucky, lucky, lucky my -ss
you calls this locks fresh water, salt water either you lie, the salmon so dry it must be the kind they catch in the sky
oh steven’s health oh well yes they removed a tumour however that was the cancer’s tumor, yeah cancers can grow tumors too smarty guy, doctor rubén removed the cancer’s tumor, the original cancer is now malignant in the skin cell, the couldn’t tell his mole cause his misalignment stole the pigment and he looked like an albino with three shoulders he tried to dye himself back to normal in a bath of coca cola but now he’s got dimentcha and he thinks he’s ale roka, oui it savsha and degoya hey i can’t complain he’s better then roderick forecasting rain. that’s how they always end the story in my family, with i can’t complain, grandma you just complained for 45 straight minutes without breathing or blinking, the nice girl is trying to take our drink order
if i could get a word in edge wise i’d say lucky the stomach flu, lucky that 2 month itch i’d rather not talk about, lucky because perfectly healthy is not a neutral state, perfectly healthy is a perpetual full body youforia but this is my fathers family and my complaining about their complaining is both concrete prove that in one of them an unfair generalization of a proud people
take my dad, you know lucky he never caught a zip gun ricochet to the face but if you lean in you can see a little blue dimple on his chin from fourth grade sometime in the 1950s when trying to figure out how to get ink into a ball point pen, he accidentally slammed the bic into his jaw tattooing himself for life and lucky he did cause that wasn’t a ball point pen at all, it was a flag pole, ten year old paul merman watsky was claiming that little patch of skin for himself and held his ground even as this unfamiliar man creeps up on 70 around him
i can see it in my dad’s eyes every time he laughs at one of his own idiotic puns, everywhere he laments the over bearing jewish mother that made him wanna tip out of his manhattan apartment window like a potted plant, and lucky he backed away from the edge, and not lucky just because his reproductive equipment was the genetic heat of my eventual existence
but also because smiles are delinquent teenagers, they like to gather in large groups, they leave marks on the wall of your face to tell you of a life well lived, they’re hard to get rid of but once they’re gone you wonder why you pushed them away, you wonder into their dusty old rooms at night hold back tears at the edge of their bed and sit there rocking back and fourth thinking lucky the bend in your box bringed and sent two strong swimmers into the world as decent sons
so lucky san francisco, lucky the lights over the harbor, lucky we’re so young, both of us, dad because time is like a million mile wooden dock and we’re at the very end, the very young end you’re practically dangling our toes in the water, even if you’re a hundred years old you’re still dangling, and you’ll shoot back, you’re d-mn right i’m dangling, in all the wrong places
you’re completely missing my point, because i just vomited in my lap in an overbooked jumbo jet, sitting here smelling extremely human but i still have my feet on the ground
so lucky we’re not live stock, lucky we’re programmed to think babies are cute, otherwise we’d probably ignore them and they’d crawl anomalously in large packs
america is a plump kid in husky overalls and i plan to live off the fat of the land, this country is a big cupcake straddling two oceans and lucky it wasn’t me and you and someone had to fight and die so we could rot our teeth on the frosting, this planet is made mostly of carbon and teflon and one day we’ll slide off it like so much burnt stir fry, there’s a lot that goes into a moss-covered rock, lucky there are so many cool bugs under them and it sucks that we eat a few by mistake at night but at least we don’t crawl into spider’s mouths while we’re sleeping, a web of impossible coincidences has crystallized into this moment, look around you, history is a foot, this nights smells like no other ever had or ever quite will, so don’t hold your nose when you walk past me
i just murmured myself to get everyone on this plane an amusing party story. so you better thank those lucky stars, all 3 hundred billion of them, lucky you, lucky me

- watsky

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