You Speak Poetry

That's a quote, not a title

Here's to this guy for inspiring the verses below.

So here's to Jack
He was a busker who played his strings with slack,
And he'd exhaust his mentalities when he came out in rap,
And if a passer were to pay him for sharing his crap,
He'd throw the pennies at their feet say "You can have your money back,"

So here's to Sue,
She was an artist who painted the news,
They'd report it she'd create it with stencils and glues,
And when she was finished and there was nothing else to add that was new,
                                                                               She had a model of a theory of what a human should
                                                                               do,

So here's to Dave,
He was a hero who thought of the lives that he'd save,
When he booked up and paid for his course in first aid,
But he didn't see the irony in hoping and praying,
That a kid would get knocked down in the course of his way,


So here's to Jim,
He's an alcoholic, that's him,
He doesn't care for much except his bottle of gin,
But who's to say he's wrong when he's so happy in sin,
Hell I'd ask him but he never really did much of that talking




So many faces, so many names
So many people playing different games,
It's hard to remember which side I'm on


So many faces, so many names,
So many that they all seem the same,
And yet there's no emphasis on individual opinion,




So back to Jack, three years later now he's bored of the slack,
He tightened up his strings and pulled his vocal shit back,
Now he's barely recognisable when he comes out in rap,
He doesn't want to be a rapper he wants to be a democrat,


Now back to Sue, three years later she's moved onto the blues,
Figured an artist painting music, that you can't really lose,
She'll even throw in juxtapositioning by painting in red hues,
As it's less controversial, it's all become dead news


Now back to Dave, three years later got his own kids to raise,
Gotta protect them from bad shit like drugs drinks and razor blades,
He could protect them as he's qualified in first aid,
But hows he gonna do that gotta feed with the work he slaves,


Jim, three years later, still on the gin,
But now he's hanging in the gambling halls, he figures he'll win,
But he never really does, his wallet's anorexic thin,
So he's picking up his next hit from the bottom of a council bin,