You feel it?
Somethin’s comin, I feel it callin – like Phil Collins
thru the air tonight, tho it’s dark, my future’s scary bright
staring right into it, spinnin out
but steering right into it, sittin down – and tearing right into this
sandwich of sand which defines my mettle
if I had to pick – an adjective, my rhymes are pretzels
actually, that’s a metaphor, after me comes the second horse
of the apocalypse, you’re a popsicle, I’m a welding torch
tryin to turn you ecto and endomorphs into mesomorphs
acres of fans – wavin their hands – sendin me semophores
life was a blog excerpt, it was meant for more
right? and then God said, “sure – please remember your
gift to uplift, not the sediment you been settlin for
thinkin you shootin high, rise, gentlemen it’s the second floor”
the future’s a sky dive, if you could view it thru my eyes
you’d refuel your mind right cuz – Lucifer’s at his typewriter
tappin in your ear, and tryin to pollute your atmosphere
I’m in the mood to stand right here, fight thru and kick some ass this year
fool, this ain’t a duel, it’s a coup de tat
and killers don’t fight, they finish, toupe off
with a clear head, and no bull, tho we steer ahead
I’m noble, not fearless, and every moment’s a near death
experience, an experiment – with are you serious?
if your dream’s a wounded soldier, how far will you carry it?
thru the battle’s heat, when it seems that the tune is over
and you don’t have a seat, will you cling to the Truth or fold up?
ain’t about what I drive, it’s about what drives me
I’m a thermonuclear – Ferris Bueller, I’m out of my seat
sick of the BS, and lawyers at chalkboards
who get pissed at Jesus, while buildin altars to monsters
like Chairman Mao, cuz here in their town – he’s the sheriff
and try to dress up Che Guevara – to look like Vida Guerra
I love America, and you all can go suck on Florida
and kiss California, then get the mitt again – from Michigan
I ain’t dumbin down – for dumb clowns, you’re smart as Paul
whoever tells you different – is sellin bridges – to Arkansas
yeah, somethin’s comin, it’s me you ungrateful sons of bitches
and this ain’t a movement of music, it’s pavement someone’s hittin…
© 2011 Paul Will Prevail
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