The FightSo skip the blueprintI'm gonna need another colorTo get back on my trackBecause I don't have any otherWay to say what I've been thinking all dayYou wanna come out and playI'll tell you there ain't no wayThe reality is clearer as I look into the mirrorThis old game is doneWe're all left with noneI'm not a quitter or a fighterI'm just on the runOn a chase for freedomAnd I don't know where I'm leadingYou got to push the wheel with your backTo run from the smoke stackRun from the bull dog's teethBreathing holes in you feetWhile you hit the chainsAnd gaze out to the plainsThe alarm is crying while you're dying for breathTaking in the chemicalsFeels like you're breathing to deathThe score is on the board but you got to choose your teamMy dignity won't settle till I let off some steamAnd the books we all writeThey're being burned by our enemiesThe chills in our heartsCan't be found in anatomyNope, the dawn is late cuz' we're stuck out in the polesAnd my freezing
Gypsy SpiceThere are some things that simply go misunderstood.He was different. No one can deny that. But neither can their tongue shape an explanation.He hardly talked. Didn't utter a word until years after he should have learned to speak. It didn't matter to him; his nose could divine much more, so much more from the atmosphere than the lips of a man. Olfactory experiences were unlike any diversion the world offered. Good and bad smells did not discriminate. If he had been a musician it could be explained: A musician loves sounds. A screech or a coo would not be better or worse than the other, only good when placed in its correct setting. It was the same with his nose. The sweat and mud of pigs were pungent only where the smell arose where it did not belong. Roses and lavender were sweet only if not placed with a clashing odor. But more than those were categorized in his mind. Even if the names in word did not exist, his memory preserved each scent carefully, creating thousands upon thousands
The FiddlerThin and wiry, with coarse fair hairHe runs across the fieldHis boots stamp on the wood of the small bridgeHis heart knocking him dead and alive in time with the clack of his solesA Grosse Fugue is in his toesWith the hand of fear grabbing his shouldersYet it does not hold him backAll night she spunShe spun ribbons and stomachs and dreams and eyesTurning men into gold, gold into liquid, and liquid into merrimentNo longer the sweet child of the daisiesPurity dripping from her lips with every wordThe band could only just keep upHe could only just keep goingDust in his tearsRust in his sweatAnd a child bleeding fr