sth new??
Dear Mick,
Must I be thick, or a prick and a half to be so daft to dally, when I know that I'm in the full close to head throes of darkest prangs, within, out, you, me, rhyme or reason, all wildly out of season, and it's spineless treason, the kinship that allows the violent silence, all this babbling at my attempt at verse for Peter's Pranging Out, for which I'm gonna do a verse.
It seems if I can withstand the prang and get it together to sing as I once sang, drink gin in a real gang, flick a twang, we sang and sung, sad as sin on a pirate ship on dry land.
Leave Bilo to the mournful morning prang.
It stings when I ding, it stings like ****. And it's not just to ruck and knock out the cluck. My days are spent swerving prangs, like Old Bill in a jag, but reality keeps on like a nag, stop it, stop it, before you cop it. Off the rails, on style impaled, by injustice jailed, and through a tabloid crossword, nailed. Junkie rocker hailed, and I appear in the morning too minging to sing, and there's not much worse than that, except perhaps death.
Prangs at night that get darker and darker, at light that get starker and starker. Prangs that bends with a capital B, life's all mixed up of late, I can't see through you seeing through me.
Trying to walk tall and look hard, prangs when you're on remand and can't face the cheers and jeers of the yard.
Tell me not that story of a lad who brang to the studio, rock or sticks, chang, and wound up whacked up, gacked up, prang, and then came his turn to stand and sing on The Streets collaboration thing, looked about him in a sweat, spotlight on his twitching leg, looking for the words I was looking forward to laying, but I was twisting it, phone lost, eyes red and crossed, soul lost again, washed up on a suicidal tidal wave of denial, tossed and torn in a hung and drawn prang dawn, I'm parachuting into paranoia and crashlanding with a dizzy spin.
My lover looks like a gruesome Goya, and my minds off it. My lover kisses me and whispers ****, ****, oh my.... coat, crack, smack and speed, aint got what I need when the prang cooks up my heart and soul on the side for a feed. Very hot indeed, very hot indeed.
Rocks shouldn't be in control of me.
Now a true story, Mike invites this blues jackanory to his mic. Clean and serene? By 'eck as like. Pranged to **** and, be well I might, and might well I be, Peroxin B have loosened not their grip on me. As detox looms a day away, and the hour is nigh that he's allowed to play this hip-hop hand in this **** hot land of Streets symphonies one man band, different type of garage sang, this Bilo to the mournful morning prang.
Looking lost for the words,
rocks shouldn't be in control of me,
the rock'n'roll music cliche,
stuck forever and a day in the never never, locked away.
Anyways, further to my bully, I couldn't give two monkeys ****s for when I'm pranged, dangling, upside, outside, down.
top song. i think peter had writers block for ages but this is brilliant.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=gKLmBtcvhkA
http://youtube.com/watch?v=2nDMns0YI_4