"jumper" poems
The Frog was doing his thing
Hopping,
Croaking,
Splashing,
In to any water that he could see,
He happened upon
This Jigsaw of black and white
Morning sir, he croaked
The Cow looked down,
"MOOOOO"
Pardon I didn't quite get that,
"MOOOOVE"
Your on the tastiest grass
Below your webbed feet,
"Sorry sir,"
Didn't wish to stomp on your
Lunch with my feet,
So he hoped along, as Frogs do
Then turned around,
Hopped his best, speed built up
Leaping with all his might,
Over the Cow,
Then gracefully on to his feet,
"Cow turned"
Whhhat are you doing little thing,
As the Frog
Replied, I was seeing if I could
Jump over you
Why?
Would you do such a thing,
Well mum told me
A Cow jumped over the moon,
Yes we do
Replied Cow
Famously Are we for doing this,
Feat never seen.
"Frog replied"
Riibit, well I just jumped over you
So now I an the best jumper it seems,
Confused,
*Thinking,
Laughing,
Out loud with a MMOOooo
You aren't a better jumper than me,
We will see little Frog said
With that he did a
Bounce,
Hop,
Jumped,
Over the Cow once again it seemed,
Now it is your turn
As Cow looked on nervously
So he hooved his feet
1,
2,
3,
With that he tried
"FAILED"
Lost his balance,
And in to another's Cow pat
His face did meet.
Now the cow was not only
Black
&
White
But now he was
Covered,
&
Smelled,
Like poo, embarrassed
Was he
The Frog did laugh
Ribit, Ribit, Ribit,
Loud and clear,
Cow looked at frog,
Now Cow do you see,
Never believe what you hear,
Until you see it with your own eyes,
This is what my mother read to me,
And with that, Frog bounced off happily.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
I recall inheriting my first bike.
Solid steel.
Pink as a Maritime sunset, only more bright.
I remember replacing my sister's bike after two long years of back-n-forths -- two years of childish insults and character building -- as I choose to see it.
The thing was invincible -- rain or snow.
Save the rust, which had its way.
I missed that old bike for a time...
It was sentimental, as they say.
My next two broke down fast -- they were hardly comparable.
When I was able to buy my own, the excitement was unbearable.
What a beauty 14", titanium dirt jumper,
Canadian made Norco -- Red, it gleams.
Even to this day, twelve years downstream.
It's too bad it hasn't grown with me
Because I'm having trouble giving it away...
We've spent a short lifetime together
And I know I will rue the day
I forsake my childhood
And take
Three hundred dollars
In its place.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Act 1: selfless devotion and stuff
I loved her, but she was a zombie.
So I put her safe in a cage.
I knew she loved me too.
Because she always tried to hug me.
Sometimes the cage was hard to reach.
I'm glad she loves to follow me.
She liked to escape from her cage.
But I'd always put her back.
She was sneaky and got into sneaky places.
I love her 'cuz of her mischief.
Act 2: lovers in a dangerous time
There were other zombies, too.
I didn't love them at all.
They were mean and got in my way.
But I was a lot smarter than them.
There were lots of other zombies.
Lucky I'm a real good jumper.
Sometimes I'd even find a gun.
Take that, other zombies.
If bullets ran out, I'd find another gun.
Nothing's going to keep me from my girl.
Act 3: "philosopher" isn't a career
The other zombies got really angry.
That was when it got pretty scary.
My love was stronger than my fear.
Zombies aren't really that bad anyway.
They always stopped when she was safe.
Maybe they're happy for our love.
I loved her, and she loved me.
But then, she was a zombie.
Could we be together?
I saw her standing there.
And then I was a zombie too.
And all the humans everywhere died.
But the guy and gal zombies were in love, so it's good.
To celebrate, they made delicious pancakes.
(Zombies can make pancakes).
The End.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
I went to the garage to throw up and came out with a glass of water and a box to store my waste
I wish I had thrown up everything all that was me
But nothing came up but a wee little bit
Our adventure set off and to the shed we went only to be disappointed by the crude lawn mower
Once more the travels we set off on to the couch it is
Where he shows me a trick to alleviate my nauseous head
My legs spread for him and I cannot control the yes daddy slipping from my ***** ****** lips at the time
21 and **** with the tats he was everything I wanted and so the game began where his **** ****** my god **** tight *****
Age is just a number I'm 17 god **** it a responsible one at that with a job and friends and good grades and a future and here I am wishing I was good enough for this man
But I was
And he was cute and funny and sweet and
Gone
And this 17 year old sits waiting wondering what the **** do I do when I want but do not need and what the **** do I do when he may not want me
But baby I'm a jumper and the fall is scary but
Am I strong enough to crawl out of that hole again?
Am o stupid enough to chance it?
Will this even effect me as much as I'm playing into it?
I may not even like him when it comes down to it
But ****
I want to **** again
And I want to be loved
But these are indeed not the same thing my first time guy
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
There is a blood clot in the center of Imagination Street,
I can feel it.
It blocks the path that follows through Creative Avenue
where cars horn, roar and protest, curse and smother with
a simple look of “Move the **** on!”
And yet no paramedic can remove the jumper that
lays from austere insipid life.
It's a victim of routine they say, jumped from the nearest skyscraper
hoping to touch the sky but fell miserably on to the streets.
There is an aberration stretched over the streets, I can feel it
because it's me.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
there was little sheep he was feeling dull
the farmer he decided to shave of all his wool
he was very sad and feeling rather cold
knowing that his coat had gone waiting to be sold
he headed in to town to the local store
he knew where it was he had been there before
he bought himself some wool and began to knit
made himself a jumper the was a perfect fit
now the sheep was happy at last he had some heat
and with his jumper on he looked so very sweet
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
You breathed gin.
This is blood for you.
Your hands held your hair and your eyes shut.
The alcohol lulled your brain to black.
It escaped your veins,
Diluted by 37.5% truth serum.
Gasping at the
Divine realisation
Where slurred lips
Contradicted
Your once straight-faced,
Certainly-certain speakings
Of your very crooked lie.
So crooked, it wound his heart around yours.
But that ball of yarn unravelled in an instant.
And the jumper you knit together,
Came apart
Stitch by stitch.
In my fogged memory,
I had choked myself that night
With a bottle and a ball of yarn.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Dribble Dribble Stop
The Player Takes a Jump Shot
The Ball Swishes in
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Bring out the pottery boy
Mr A said
bring it out front
so the other boys can see
your work
I took out my clay pottery
attempt to the front of class
and stood there
holding the pottery
on a wooden tray
Mr A gazed at me
through his black framed
Beatnik glasses
his eyes like huge marbles
what you call this
huh boy?
I looked at the hand rolled
clay ***
haven't called it
anything yet
I said
thinking of a name
he went stern eyed at me
are we attempting wit
as well as pottery?
He said
a mild titter
from some boys
in the class
here
he said
in a raised voice
like a failed actor
here we have
an example how not
and I repeat NOT
to make a ***
the classroom went quiet
I stared at my ***
lopsided and brown
like a rushed ****
what were you attempting?
Mr A asked
whatever it was
it most certainly was not
a ***
I said nothing
I gazed at him
in his snot green jumper
and Beatnik beard
and brown
corduroy trousers
and sandals
I don't know
why I bother
with pupils like you boy
he said
waste of my time
I stood looking
passed him at Danny
who was boss eyed
and pulling a face
I suppressed a smile
and looked dull
go back to your place
and spare me
the sad boy look
so I returned to my desk
with my ***
leaning further east
and placed it down gently
as if it were some work
of modern art
Mr A then poked
Eddie in the back
and held up his ***
which went in and out
like armless model
of Greek design
worse
Mr A said
than mine.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Dear Addiction, could you please stop knocking on my door?
I already have your ***** syringes scattered about my floor.
You keep on telling me that I want more
But I’m not very sure.
When you pierce my skin everything stills
Even though I hate it it feels so much better than the pills
I don’t want to do anything you have taken my will
Not only that, you’ve taken everything, including all of my dollar bills
I know that feeling of dry mouth too well.
They tell me that I can stop but honestly, I can’t tell
Right now it seems like the only way out of this is a bullet shell
I don’t know why I crave you when you bring me so much hell
When you crawl your way back into my veins
Those first hits of pleasure make me go insane
I start to remember why I got on this crazy train
But then I remember just how badly you’ve ****** up my brain
I wish I could get your illness out of my head.
They tell me that I am one twentieth of a gram from ending up dead
Yet no matter how many warnings are said
You seem to be the only reason to get out of bed.
I have lied for you.
I have ****** for you.
I have done for many awful things for you.
And I will most likely die because of you.
Dear Addiction, why do you make this so tough?
They say that abusive relationships aren’t made out of love
And I know the way you treat me is rough
But I cannot help what I love.
They say that all you do is harm.
Yet when my happiness comes into me through a needle in my arm
And my brain tells me that I should be alarmed
All I can do is crave your harm.
Your harm makes me feel like I am whole.
But it also seems to drag me further into the hole.
It seems that you have taken my soul
Getting you out of my life is a faraway goal.
Dear Addiction, you’ve hit me with a huge smack.
You’ve shown me how easy it is for life to get out of whack
I probably should have stopped before your first attack
But you had seen to put my life back on track.
Dear Addiction, you fill up my hunger.
But at the same time I’m starting to feel more and more like a jumper
I hate you more than I’ve hated any other
You are my most hated lover.
Dear Addiction,
I’m giving you an eviction.
I never even gave you any permission
To take away my ambitions.
Dear Addiction, I want to send you away.
But you are still knocking at the door where I stay
You always do know how to get your way.
Time to go back to my decay.
Dear Addiction
Stop ******* knocking. I’m coming!
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Please come and find me.
Playful whispers in the dark.
Who am I calling?
I suppose...
My baby,
Can I call you baby?
O sweet lullabyes in the night,
Hold me in mild constriction.
Squeeze a little bit tighter, love.
I don't know how much time I have left.
Delusional!
Alone on the vacuum.
Scratching at air for any oxygen my depraved lungs can find,
Suffocating on your love,
Choking on your divinity.
Oh darling,
My sweet crimson lover
Dancing on the bridge of death at the break of dawn,
You swing me in your arms,
Tight tongue behind your violent grin,
Your hair grows stars, and your arms bend time,
my fatal partner in a tango to the edge of the earth.
Heartless as you torture me,
Wrench my soul playfully,
Foolishly and ignorantly,
Pulling my strings.
Enacting
autopilot daydreams
Painting mindless patterns
On an inky black sky,
Orange slices on existential beach
Sparkling warm coast,
The cosmos like a bright sunny day above.
Bitter ashes mix and churn with the sand,
I'm sinking,
Quickly,
Help me!
But you just watch.
And I sink until I hit the bottom
And there I lie,
Falling asleep to as my grief fills the ocean.
The zodiac locked fate,
Fish and Virgins! Fish and Virgins!
Poets and failures,
Academics and frauds,
Spring and summer to autumn and madness,
My eternal indigo diary,
My blueberry lipstick,
My lavender kiss.
Leaving light stains on my love-lorn letters,
Mailed to you on Sunday,
Delivered along the Milky Way.
Waiting emptily,
In an empty white asylum,
With an empty mind,
Waiting for you,
My answer,
My meaning,
My red and blue jumper.
Not standing up to stretch,
But sitting still,
Letting my bones grow stiff,
To creak under my weight,
Like an old back porch,
Made for a pair of old lovers,
Desolate,
Withered by neglect,
Empty.
A pointless pray for solace,
In hope you will come,
My prince of waves,
My fifth science,
My escape from this never ending sporadic spiral down into the murky, dusty, purple fog of asinine and inane.
My peace of mind.
My baby.
Can I call you baby?
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
autism to blame
for the white in white
male
(I blame)
***
for shared abstinence (I blame)
my former self for my
former
transference my baseline
jumper on
poverty the gnome
in your front yard on tough
interior
art
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Maybe I was drunk on your laugh, glitter still stuck in your beard.
I always wanted to turn the lens back on you. Say "This is how you look at me; this is how I want to look at you."
Everything I did with you felt like art, and it was.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
A cup of tea, a lullaby
A winter day spent outside.
A warm jumper with frayed edges,
A book bound in leather
With yellow pages.
A love letter and a hand-written message.
Coming home late
For soup and pie,
Outside the full moon
Is watching over us.
Little snowflakes cover the land,
The bare trees sing lullabies.
The barn owl, the snow hare,
They stay cosy in their beds, and
The little birds hide in their nests.
As we go home,
The wind blows,
But we worry not,
We know,
Soon spring will come along.
Oct 6, 2022
Oct 6, 2022 at 3:12 PM UTC
i will watch as you walk away with pieces of my brittle heart lodged into your palms
and i hope they sting every time her hand slips into yours
i will watch empty promises tumble from your mouth as you exhale
and i hope you choke on them
and as you breathe in every molecule of her perfume
i hope the scent stings your nose
i will watch you kiss her and kiss her and kiss her
and i hope it's the best experience of your life
so i watch you fall from grace as she discards you like a jumper she has outgrown
and i taste the same sweet satisfaction you did when she kissed you
i watch as a drunken mess
because the hangovers hurt much less than even a fleeting thought of you
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.
Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.
I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much ****** snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.
And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.
-
A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.
The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.
And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.
-
A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.
So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.
And now it’s all there.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Fire Walker
Angel Talker
Tree Hugger
Technicolor Dreamer
Imagination Jumper
Long time Barber
Recent Photographer
Twisted Big Sister
Missus of the Mister
Wicked Stepmother
to Some
Auntie of Others
Armchair philosopher
Always a Poet
and my Friends
mostly think
a Know- It-All
but in a nice way:)
Karen Newell
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
(fictional tale of real beverages)
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin
*
they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
Helen passes me
her doll
Battered Betty
hold her
for a minute
she says
I hold the doll
between hands
away from me
in case she may
wet on me
as my old man
used to do
when my kid brother
was a babe
and he didn't want
the kid's ***
on his new suit
what's wrong with her?
I ask
she's got a temperature
Helen says
I look at the doll
who looks white
and cold and I smile
ok
I say
well take off
these clothes
and woollen jumper
no wonder she's hot
and got a temperature
we are walking along
Meadow Row
towards the fish
and chips shop
over the crossing
to get my mother's order
do you think
she's got a temperature?
Helen asks
I feel the doll's forehead
no it seems fine to me
I say
ok
she says
and take the doll back
and holds her
against her chest
rocking the doll
side to side
and patting
the doll's back
it's just she seemed
hot this morning
Helen says
when I got her
out of bed
whose bed?
I ask
mine
she says
the one I share
with my sister
with Betty between us
next to Teddy
I see
I say
seeing her rock
the doll side to side
like a good
little mother
she's lucky
I say
I sleep
with my little brother.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Her feet were balloons and her toes were the ties,
And her shoes were a way of life—
Boots to splash in puddles and heels to catch an eye.
Her legs were the ocean and her arms were the moonlit sky
And her hands were binoculars and her palms were maps,
And her fingers showed him the way.
Her nails were chameleons that changed when they liked
And her skin was tan in the fall and pale in the spring,
But her cheeks were always rose
And her shoulders were turtles, lifting the world,
And her neck was only a scarf
And her stomach was empty but her chest was full
And her hips spoke for themselves
And her golden hair coiled like silk snakes before the killing strike.
Her ears were the willows on the edge of the lake,
And she could hear but never liked to listen,
And when she did, you knew,
And her questions were stupid and her answers were not
And her thoughts were clouds in the morning
And her voice was the wind
And he was lucky.
Her eyes were blue and hung like Neptune in the dark,
And her gaze could cool the sun,
And she was beautiful.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
let me structure you first:
there, now, ready, fly my owl
granting vision logic,
guiding thoughtform fair.
what softness in the earth gives way
to waterway, what forceful gust of air
to final quench of earthy thirst...
such unseen pyschomancy dusts
the wing-stroke of your flight,
and weathers well my musing trust;
you see with ancient zero eye,
and die to my dull interpret edge;
like a certain volcano jumper's
ox of oats and honey you
coat the stone of time to
symbolize my rhyme. hold,
softer, still, i do not need to cut
or pluck or forge with harshness --
your shrill screeching from the cage
of lines here summons more
than Athene's gavel ever forced.
otherwise than writing, you wait...
cradled darkly, unknown priorlife
of avadhuta colors mixing in,
of whalesong faintly felt
like stegosaurus moans,
like city-ships to overreach and then to rot,
forgotten tattva vidya shastra
forgotten sukha,
Megbe, Tirawa, Awen, Asha, Ichor...
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
I thought I knew what missing someone was
an ache
in the deepest pit of your stomach
that hits you like a truck - trucks hit you all at once
I was mistaken.
I thought I knew what missing someone was
And so
I sat listening to these songs and
That jumper I picked out today - it didn't fit perfect but it
brought me comfort.
I thought I knew what missing someone was
It's crept
All up and upon me so slowly, so
stealthy and disguised, our everyday things - they each piled inside of me
one by one.
I thought I knew what missing someone was
And until
I met you, it wasn't all bad
But I am wrapped in us - our clothes. our pictures and songs.
I miss you.
I miss you
I see now
That before you
I'd never missed
any one person
Not a little -
Not a once -
Not an ever -
Not at all.
I can only hope you don't miss me
Because the thought of you feeling this
Is so much worse
Than to not be thought of at all
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
there are days where I sit and stare at myself in the mirror
picking apart every little flaw, every extra roll and
every bit that's not the right shape or colour
and I think, almost religiously,
that I am not good enough for you.
Becuase the truth is that I'm not.
You deserve sunshine and flowers on a summers day,
not a work in progress as dull as a winters night.
I say this to you and you pull your lips together with a sad smile,
look down at me
say
"But what if I prefer winter"
My boy that is not the point.
All I do is make you worry and I wanna be your sunshine but I just don't
think
i
can
be
that
yet
I'm a work in progress.
Incomplete
I was shattered just before we met and putting the pieces together
is
killing
me
And the things we don't talk about
things we shelve for a conversation in the
future.
involves things that only
"I love you"
might be able to fix.
through everything
recovery is hard
and each and every day is a choice
I need to make
to be better
and
I'm not always strong enough to make that choice.
I just want you to understand
my boy
my lovely amazing
perfect
boy
that sometimes I don't eat
and sometimes I want to die more than not
that anxiety is a being that rocks me
and sometimes I need the rush of pain
from scrubbing hard at my skin
or dragging a blade across it
it's not about you.
it's not something your presence is going to necessarily fix
But i want to try for you.
Maybe i can't be your sunshine
but maybe
i can be your cup of tea
your jumper
your girl
wrapped up in your bed sheets
on a cold winters night
you once said you had no problem
helping me pick up my messes
and if you stand by that
ill be your girl.
In whatever season you want me.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Heavy metal never really called my name
What have we come from?
Where are we goin?
Information at fingertips
helios
sunshine
moonshine
chromeshine
writing , for writings sake
No prescription - the session is free
for the
meaning to fit the key of the lock of knowledge and wisdoms fruit
gems
are the segments of an orange.
Who knows -
maybe this is best
the fleeting but perpetual motion
vibrant motions.
to whom do these shirts and clothes am i wearing belong?
=
A beige coat , with the old mans jumper.
and the best friends tshirt cut at the ends with whales on them
just riding the waves
in the floating oceans shores
drifting kind sifting but with intentional grace
slow
or fast.
Horns blast.
=
open
=
ding . ding . ding.
level unlocked !!!!!
=
boom ,, de la bot
robotics.
Ghosts in Machines....
ha,
ha
.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
The buzz in the air, you feel that, feel that?
The tuxedoed men gonna deal that, deal that.
And now that you're here, the show can begin
Turn the lights down low, and the get the disc to spin.
The ice starts meltin' and the floor gets hot,
This parties gonna start whether you're ready or not.
The seat over there, Sit in it, sit in it,
Take a step back and watch while I'm spittin' it.
There is no need to untrust us,
Stand over there and watch while I bust this.
There's no way to get into it,
Close your eyes feel the beat and get intimate
Rotate your thighs and breathe in the sin of it
Rotate your mind, get high, keep on spinning it.
Stop...and watch while it gets into me
The musical blocks unlock and make a synergy.
Said ready, steady, everybody get low,
And the clubs get sweaty and we're ready to go.
The air's getting heavy and hot and you know
There's blood lust worse than Jaws and Cujo.
Light the place up, it's covered in kerosene,
The white's all over your face, oh, how embarrassing.
The lines all over the floor, there so pretty,
Take one sniff and you think you're so witty.
I'm a bomb, I'm blowing up the club now,
Can't escape the beat 'cause you don't know how,
Gonna move your feet that's all you know how,
Gonna feel the glow, the blow is so wow.
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
Yayo brings me up so I stand up and then
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
The powder knocks me down so I stay down and then
There is no need to untrust us,
Chopping the blocks, but there is no justice.
Just lustless symmetry
Closed my eyes 'cause the haze, it has enveloped me.
Shut my eyes and clogged all of my arteries,
I love the blow so much it is a part of me.
You said this had turned into my enemy,
But musical clocks tick-tock the beat right into me.
And that's not where I get all of my energy,
Jumper cables hooked up to A and D.
And don't forget the CCs in DC,
I got twenty more CCs left to inject me.
High flying humans
Set straight to zoomin',
It's spicier now then curry or cumin,
So full of life and we're only just bloomin'.
Believe in the hype if only for a little bit,
All that we need is white a just a little wit.
The worlds right here if you can unriddle it,
Play the last song and one more if it'll fit
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
Yayo brings me up so I stand up and then
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
I fall down, but I get up again,
The powder knocks me down so I stay down and then
La cocaína is no good for you
But the pony's still buckin', imma ride it through
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 8:27 PM UTC