Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Elegy, artist - Youngblood Brass Band. Album song Live. Places., in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 04.02.2005
Record label: Layered
Song language: English
Elegy |
«I'm sorry»: |
It’s easy to say when you’ve got arms to find solace in |
And lips to get drunk on |
I remain ink-stained, disdained, ingrained |
Are you feeling entertained? |
I used to wonder what the pain was like |
When my father’s heart exploded |
Common art sold it but this won’t settle for silence |
Now I’m volatile with self-violence |
Trust me |
Even patience wouldn’t try this venerable eye-sense |
Since I found a beat left dying on the street |
And took her home to pen-stitch the bleeding rhythm |
She’d been selling ism |
And we shared stories of correlating detonated coronaries |
It’s beyond scary |
But fear is the little death and I’m no muad’dib |
You colonized my Arrakis |
Helpless melange addict |
With the right tactic and the wrong practice |
Faulty emotional stillsuit |
Left me dehydrated and rapless |
Let the desert have me |
I didn’t know it was the last kiss |
You never told me it was the last kiss |
You never told me shit |
So now you’re gone |
I’ll play the solo solar soldier |
That’s eternally ignited |
So now where’s your coal |
(Gone) to hell in an old soul |
It cannot burn like this |
Trial by nostalgia |
Like it’s all love, all over, all just |
I guess I’m all folding |
Because God knows I can’t deal holding sole trust |
Thought I was quicksilver but its gold rush |
Beat my cold crush into the promised land |
I took a last stand |
Before that promise banned |
I tried to show promise jazz but it wandered past my thumb |
And I hitched a ride alone to strife’s home |
A microphone, a pen, and bad company to keep |
Some things seem to seep out your pores |
Embedded too deep to be indebted to speak |
I’ll be better next week |
In the bed where you freak |
I’m dead as text |
Believe me it’s not the sex |
No pity please |
No patronizing subtlety suffering me |
No laughing irony |
Publicly comedy tragically badgering my process of not mastering loss yet |
(This) game set (to) match (light) |
At least give me enough cash to get back… right? |
Airport sadness, indeed |
Cause I train MC’s in ways of emitting verbal rays |
But this shit’s got me busted |
Like mass transience… or transcendence |
We all gotta transcend |
Gotta transcend |
Gotta transcend |
Better a brother or father? |
At least you kept it in the family |
And I shouldn’t have assumed |
That, as moons rise, only astute eyes see |
My mindscape’s tenements bathed in light |
Project-laden fright |
See, night is the time I place self-wrought wooden dowels |
Between street signs so as to build thought-ladders |
The rungs, my lungs, exhale into you |
Admittedly codependent |
What makes it worse are the love-locks I built in front of the gateway |
With each day I add a level |
But your skeleton key sees through it all with those three words |
So why keep building? |
If distance is the answer I can fake it |
And call it ascension |
A.K.A. |
not giving attention to how I really feel |
And I don’t even know what that rung is |
My greatest regret was not making this ladder/letter for two |
I am what I write, and I wrote this all about you |
I’m all about you |
I’m all about you |
I’m all about… you |