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Nigdaw Aug 7
it's not about the melody
it's all about the energy
if your ears aren't ringing
the decibels aren't delivering
you have to play it
LOUD
to reach the individual
in the crowd
this is more than just music
it is a life choice
to fit in
belong
to a family
a brotherhood
only each other
understand
<music>
<en-nan nin nin en-nan et dan>
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
             COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!
<music>
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<music>
...a pen, a floor, A CAGE,
             It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<music>
ON THE FLOOR, down you go-oo,
            It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,

It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,

Caught in, caught in, caught-up again,
            It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,

It's the Bra-Hi STOMP!

COME ON, COME, COME ON!
           It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,

ON THE FLOOR, down you go-oo,
            It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<musical break>
.
.
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
             COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!

It's the Bra-Hi STOMP!

<fade out>
A slow lead-in to a longer heavy metal jam. 'Bra' southern slang for brother so, "Brother I Stomp."
Aa Harvey May 2018
Working 9 to 5


The constant rumble of the fans above my head,
That cool me down, so I don't feel too tired.
The crashing bangs, of heavy metal things,
As the machines continue to work,
To produce metal sheets.


The thunderous press machine,
Thumps another piece of metal,
As the production line keeps moving,
Full of different people.
Each of them standing, in their own specific spot;
Capable of breaking the chain,
If one of them is gone.


So just hang your metal onto the track;
The thing that made me quit before, but I came back.
And now here I am, stronger and wiser,
Better than before;
Now they've offered me the job full time.


But I know, I can do better than this,
For I wish to be a poet, an author and a lyricist.
I just keep looking at the clock,
Waiting for another minute to pass.
****!  I'm sure it's stopped;
I've surely been here longer than that.
No; it's just because,
I'm not using my head
And thinking to make time pass quicker
And not just waiting for it to be 10.


At last!  It's here, we all give a silent cheer,
Or a sigh of relief, that the day is done.
At last, now we can all go home.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Darius Apr 2016
Are we the cattle of an entire nation?
What have we got to lose? Except for those already lost
You can be docile or violent, just don’t lie in silence!
Rise up! Here begins a new age, end discrimination!

Innocence is dead, the wrong men end up in the jail cell
This place is nice, but life is going to hell
They’re ******, ‘cause the former majority is now a minority
Hypocritical foundations, this land’ll never unite
What happened to Civil Rights?
They only gave us what was left.
You pigs - You must be bored just to send so many to the morgue
I can’t stand to watch the news, this society isn’t one to put kids through
And it’ll only get worse
Time never changes, history repeats
No more running (RISE UP!) This is the culling!

The culling!
Never will I be your *****!
The culling! (x2)
The United States lives an ****** Cold War!
(Let’s Rock)

We are the Antiheros, the Public Enemy
Now join me friends, let’s unveil the clarity

Who am I to you? When you look what do you see?
All you see are the colors of sin
The American Dream is broken, you breed loathing
Who can, Who will - Make America Great Again?
I can’t be led by a Puppeteer of Dollar Strings
You wanna make the world free? (HUH?)
But the only thing costless, is the loss of me
Drop it! If she needs and investigation
(She’s out!) That’s the end of an asinine conversation

Rise Up! It’s far too late
I am the spirit of those who live with a target
One wrong factor can end an actor
The leaders are gone, the show is over
It’s the end of the road, but the start of -

The Culling!
A Constitution Diluted by Disillusion
The Culling!
A Jail For A Nationalistic Conspiracist!

Time puses back, but it doesn’t make it better
The War is getting colder and the water’s getting redder
Every Rose has it’s thorns
We are the Bulls with dulled horns - Branded!
We’re the ones you reprimanded!
I! Feel I was born in the wrong time
I’ll go forward and see if they opened their eyes
Or I’ll go back! So I could ******’ Revolutionize!
We all see, the ocean is vast
But like the truth and time, It Never Lasts!

Post-Traumatic Society Destruction
The Bliss of Disorder continues to function
All of the ways you hold us down
Leads to a point we take your crown
Everytime you hold us back
Pushed in a corner, poised to attack
One last push against -

The Culling!
We can’t hideaway any longer
The Culling (x3)
Your ignorance makes us stronger
The Culling!
A song written by me.
George Henry Jun 2015
I
Put my
Coin into the

Slot
And watch the
Plastic horses
Galloping away.

Now my ears sing
And I lead straight lines to circles,
Into symbols for the eye inside the glass ball,
Its blinking is its calling.
I carry it,
Cables dripping from my sleeves
Stumbling out of
And from
The oceans favour,
Back to my own arms.

Feeding back the seagulls to the breeze.

The thunder feeds my compass
To a sun lost in a forest.

Thrown into boxes with carpeted walls;

I find myself playing

Heavy metal.
Michelle Lynne Apr 2014
I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.

— The End —