When Napoleon declared the French parliament defunct,
representatives beat him up. A couple hundred miles away,
Beethoven scribbled over his own dedication to Napoleon,
whom he had supposed to be a champion of liberty.
As climbing the greasy pole goes,
this wasn't exactly polished.
He was roughed-up - by politicos!
Can't blame them: no-one likes being abolished
(for sure, not these ego-bloated shysters!)
What else? Oh, in a paroxysm of rage,
an eccentric Kapellmeister
gouged a hole in a music page.
For all his smiling talk of ease and glee
(tomorrow), his eloquent implorings,
this moment always comes.
The pipes get drowned by drums.
The sleek ship of self-regard, so sleazily,
drifts free of its decent moorings.
i think ill become a rapper i've always known to rhyme
words come out of my lips so easily
Cause when im rapping its like i flow through time
the words flow so fast some sleazily
im going to destroy the rap game
the police and everything
i dont really care
i just want to make my way out of the hood
(On November 9, 1799 Napoleon Buonaparte
launched his coup d'etat in Paris. It made
him a dictator, and corrupted him beyond
salvation. 18 Brumaire was the date of the
coup, by the revolutionary calendar in use
at the time.)
As climbing greasy poles habitually goes,
this wasn't (one must say) exactly polished.
To be roughed-up – but by politicos!
Can't blame them: no-one likes to be abolished
(especially not these ego-bloated shysters!)
What else? Oh, in a paroxysm of rage,
in distant climes, eccentric Kapellmeisters
were gouging (scoring?) through a music page.
For all his smiling talk of ease and glee
(tomorrow), his eloquent implorings,
unfailingly, this moment always comes.
The pipes are always drowned by the drums.
and that sleek sloop named self-regard so sleazily
slips free of all that nurtured it – its moorings.
In this village of minions-
we seal our thoughts away,
trying to be something we aren't-
how despicable you say.
the white rat that is larger than life
clamping down on the fragile roses,
to find weed that glows the mind
and burns-0 the old buildings that must die.
the red snake sleazily gone by,
into the pub where drinks are unpaid-
not at least when coins are dispensed
without the presence of conscience.
the roads that wind together to form
a blockade against leisure time,
the broken phrases teachers use
when the complete would do much less.
the turban bandits that came from
healers,the chief vanguards of slavery,
history's many white bones and ash-
in some river they pass under us,
the dying nights when days are lived
too full,the dropped eyes that watches
the shadow instead of the man-
the water whose reflection is us.
the branch of a tree in the city
is breaking,nothing
will replace that little thing again-
we learn to look at big pictures;for they lie better.
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