FORCE CENTRAL & COUNTRY BOY *
Scratchin’ on the cave walls but nobody ever reads the words, they don’t fight the power
Just a handful of resistor transistors left among the living here and now, in an ivory tower
Above and below, it’s all the same, liquid, solid and gas in one form or another, gold or oil
Value of the things that make us great, it is the thing itself, the faith in the unseen royal.
Call it the universe or the name, known or unknown, with or without a Word, a Name of It
Call it your mama, that you’ll defend and there’s no doubt without mama, existence’s skit
Call in sick to your job so everybody knows that you’ll have a great day without the payday
Fell in love with the telephone rings and cell vibrations, need a text, need you in a bad way.
Chased by the fast guys that made me faster than them, I had to get away or take a bullet
Tell my mama I love her if I don’t make it home, not goin’ far past the ‘hood, now in a patty
Wet socks and boots, feet’s skin gettin’ like a chicken’s spoiled leg bones, rotten germ-lout
I am not gettin’ any younger and I’m not a bottle of brandy, so I’ve got to get the lead out.
No honey in the hive to get me high, like I used to be, every day, every night, utopian wine
Now, this war’s battles won’t let me be alone, I am dragged by the nose hairs, deep within
My mind, your mind, the mind of the utopian universe, whatever else wants present Time
Tennessee whiskey and my grandpa’s dago red wine in the cask, in the cellar, a glass rhyme.
Host or guest in the matrix makes no difference, bones and skin just a simple man’s ticket
To the players of the game before and after my presence, bona fortuna, get ready to swing it
Maybe a bat or a sword or even your girlfriend, swingin’ like up in the vines, a 12 gauge shy
Shells in the kitchen knife drawer, some ends needed never to be begun, but I’ll fetch a key.
Truth is that a tooth for a tooth only works 32 times, the last 4 times, wisdom may disappear
Into thin air or anywhere else where there’s nothing but air and the devil, who lives o’er here
Down in the lower gully by the hollar of the cousins, crazy in-breds with booties from heaven
If’n I can’t git things on my own, then I don’t git ‘em, food, place to crash, girls to love in sin.
by
r j j stephan, i *Header’s #POTUS
c. Jeudi, ROCKTOBER 24th, 2019 A.D. @ 3:33 PM PST
{ jammed while pestering my muse, she knows why and jammin’ on #WhatAreYouListeningTo by Chris Stapleton on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/zhnMSVb0oYA } YouTube 102K I like this 5.6K SHARE
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