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lirik lagu letters from t.s. elliot (burnt norton) – shadows edge

oh yeah, yeah , yeah
wake and bake sh-t
burnt norton sh-t
maybe its not?
shadows edge
maybe its some bake sh-t before you go to bed sh-t
waste land
yo whats really good?
lifes down low

persona drifter, twist the ganja let the genre hit ya
scriptures that i conjure lift the somber when i wander with ya
with spliffs to ponder whats beyond your thoughts horizon
realizing that what we’re taught is just a course that we’ve been driving
arriving at a fork, would you walk the path less taken?
or hasten to the sh-r-s(sure’s) where familiar doors were waiting
are you’re chasing the cause, or being driven towards the slaughter house?
and what blooms in the fields of the farms you never thought to plow
who walks throughout the route trail blazed through the thick weeds
cuz who needs a railway that’ll pay to these rich thieves (f-ck ayn rand)
a sick greed that’ll feed off of the powerless
towered over our brow while we bow in our cowardice
how is this a future that we’re leaving our lineage
oblivious compounded, drowned, surrounded by idiots
insidious it seems but our dreams are really anch-r-d ships
that rarely drift from harbor stare at starboard in our anxiousness
and thanks to this our port side is just a vacant spot
tied to where we’ve been, we slowly begin to hate the dock
i break the locks on the manacles that i’m shackled to
get viewed a radical, an animal in an encapsuled zoo
true collateral fanaticals who want a capital coup
but it grew to gradual, an admiral who had no actual crew
canoe for a boat that had never had the hopes to float
soak in the problems sunk to the bottom of an ill gotten moat
woke to the -n-l greasing of a holographic universe
soaked in painful secretions out the hollows of my human worth
consuming hurt, flowered from ashes of deceased
cycles repeat the p-ssage in the -sses that were greased
a feast for caskets, ask the asterisks to explain it better
weathering stormy mornings during mornings of this rainy weather
whether or not a plot that’s yet to be determined
so to be or not to be is regrettably undetermined
if heavily under burden then you’ll ever be the person that is working steadily to free from peasantry subversion
but you’ll never see the curtains lift, peepin oz in all his pertinence
circ-mvent the mirage sabotage by your own turbulence
a permanent barrage of “f-ck my job and the slobs i serve”
emerge from the fog when i flog the false gods i purge
i’m odd wit words but got an urge to articulate
obliterate the farce when the bars of the prison shake
i’m chasing stars but god placed them out my reach
teaching me be about the route, of all the doubts i keep
the clout i seek, to speak loudest off the mountain peak
or keep to the valley that allows me to count the bouncing sheep
i found no peace in the speech that defines the wise
cries echo deep, when all we do is teach from lie
i reach for skies but realize that i’m tied to chains
so my pain ignites, taking flight off its rising flames
in times of change to blame the long range of winter
its how the world ends not with a bang but a whimper
until the last cinder fades in this age, no one can tell me sh-t
cuz i’m fit for this wasteland, take a stand like t.s. elliot

[x5]
distracted from distractions by distraction
distracted from distractions by distraction
distracted from distractions by distraction in systems of abstraction in prisons that will trap them

[x8]
this is how the world ends

[x8]
not a bang but a whimper

- shadows edge

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