Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song A Gust Inside the God, artist - Youngblood Brass Band. Date of issue: 08.09.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
A Gust Inside the God |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look… |
| Like what? |
| A trophy next to me |
| An analog, a metaphor, a synecdoche |
| An argument for a snap vasectomy |
| A median that means your hands have atrophied |
| Immediate discourse |
| I mediate six swords |
| A media trick horse |
| In medias res, dorks |
| «Drop right here when you’re ready to bounce |
| Fifteen years, Youngblood, get down» |
| Stay out of sight from the stars and critics |
| I’ve evaded the shit-hitting, fans are with it |
| Guard the color well -- yep, flags, get it? |
| I’m gonna set it off, you go home and shed it |
| I heard you twice the first time you said it |
| Keep rhymes embedded |
| Each guy a veteran pro at murdering shows |
| Burgers and bros |
| Your sentences blow |
| My sentences? |
| Whoa |
| A death: one on my bed for breakfast |
| My best hope: make it hot and forget this |
| Make good on a promise to rep this |
| Make fire by sparking a set list |
| Have a ball, set a light, throw it up, don’t look, do work |
| Just keep walking |
| Cause it’s all just a night in a club in a book |
| Truth hurts |
| Please stop talking |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look… |
| At the city with the most love for brass bands: |
| NOLA, the Crescent, where cats are playing |
| Tambourine like a Mardi Gras Indian |
| Need a beat? |
| Uncle Lionel, that’s the man! |
| Bring the heat on a motherfucking frying pan |
| Like the world commanded you to hit this here |
| Hoe blade, cowbell, bottle of beer |
| All signs of work turned to fire tonight |
| The kind of symphonies America doesn’t like |
| Who cares, they got a word no one else can write |
| And why does all our good work got to come out of strife? |
| The baddest kid you’ll never hear is in New Orleans for life |
| So here’s a simile, love: |
| I’m like a mic with a cord running from Wisconsin to the 6th Ward |
| Where there’s a drummer in a grave marked «Shavers» |
| And I bet he’s still wearing a Hot 8 shirt |
| The earth’s got a funny kind of paydirt |
| Yo Dinerral, plug me in, I gotta say words |
| Because I missed the funeral and the parade, sir |
| And I’m sorry your memorial’s a lame verse, but |
| Have a ball, set a light, throw it up, don’t look, do work |
| Just keep walking |
| Cause it’s all just a night in a club in a book |
| Truth hurts |
| Please stop talking |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look… |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look |
| You have a ball |
| You set alight |
| You throw it up |
| You don’t look… |
| You don’t look… |