Another song-ish thing I wrote.
the lower-class blast,
livin' in purgatory,
I think of them every now and then,
and through the slums,
I come to them again.
Most haven't seen what it's like,
the dream, the kids, the plyboard halfpipe,
the people there,
they don't say much,
but they're the people you want around,
when you're in a clutch.
Natural skills,
put in a pot,
stewed around for twenty years,
what have you got?
Add a pinch of the ghetto,
add a handful of pain,
and you'll find yourself walking that same old lane.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Now there's one sad case,
I just have to bring up,
there was a man in there,
named Billy the Tough.
Now Billy was big,
's how he got his name,
but if you play with him in life,
he would win the damn game.
He was a nice kind o' guy,
which is probably why,
he was drugged up, buried,
and left to die.
I swear to god, man,
the good die young,
so let's sing this next verse,
with our heads hung.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Another one of my friends,
called Edward the Bungle,
another victim of this damn concrete jungle.
Now Ed's name came from him,
he wasn't put right,
at the age of two,
he lost his sense o' sight.
But in my opinion,
he was cleverer than most,
but now,
he's just another spirited ghost.
I hope we can all find our way back home,
because if we don't, we're all just so alone.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Poetry by Lucas
Read 808 times
Written on 2006-05-04 at 15:03
Tags Death Life Ghetto
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Same Old Lane
Enter the story of the men of gory,the lower-class blast,
livin' in purgatory,
I think of them every now and then,
and through the slums,
I come to them again.
Most haven't seen what it's like,
the dream, the kids, the plyboard halfpipe,
the people there,
they don't say much,
but they're the people you want around,
when you're in a clutch.
Natural skills,
put in a pot,
stewed around for twenty years,
what have you got?
Add a pinch of the ghetto,
add a handful of pain,
and you'll find yourself walking that same old lane.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Now there's one sad case,
I just have to bring up,
there was a man in there,
named Billy the Tough.
Now Billy was big,
's how he got his name,
but if you play with him in life,
he would win the damn game.
He was a nice kind o' guy,
which is probably why,
he was drugged up, buried,
and left to die.
I swear to god, man,
the good die young,
so let's sing this next verse,
with our heads hung.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Another one of my friends,
called Edward the Bungle,
another victim of this damn concrete jungle.
Now Ed's name came from him,
he wasn't put right,
at the age of two,
he lost his sense o' sight.
But in my opinion,
he was cleverer than most,
but now,
he's just another spirited ghost.
I hope we can all find our way back home,
because if we don't, we're all just so alone.
(Chorus) Some people, they just fade away,
never live before they're dead,
some just don't feel right inside,
hearing voices in their head,
and some people, they'd kill to have
a perfectly normal life,
through the bullet of a Thompson gun
or the glint of a knife.
Poetry by Lucas
Read 808 times
Written on 2006-05-04 at 15:03
Tags Death Life Ghetto
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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