p is phairwa - colby brown marron lyrics
p is phairwa lyrics
martin luther you lik’n men to dreem toff n bit wen ye ilk of whiot
hens n theyr cares to draft or milk, n tha whol’ place of abstrakt
menchins is all a’loft to tha bilk ova ternd blaft man, who lyvd unter
a kilt of uncertitude, blasphymy of cares y’l*st n chastn a duplicitos
spyryts awayqnyn n tha rash ityms of’a lost gods rancyr. but sons of
mead, who drynk’n theyr hony and mayk labers of rust to steel frake
the ore to milk, heylpliss to discare of one whyte lyfe ov tarn
te the oyne onis of byrden you tha bayrns fer th’ byrn
( ye quill tha byrd). to’r laffter in peayce y’barqin wit n miyght to
vylences and unkynesses of all’t whyte lyknesses, a’scornd n
scorchd hist’ries, but byrdеn him none tha ochre
of him twyst n’ chaffe ‘way, but brayvе s’conds a’for the wilt
ahh, y’say n’the myght and myth of werks to teach, but grav’n idols
mayk no qayrs to the whins n choyc ov even oyne grayt labir
yuletyde speeych n tire fir wells of wits then
i hear ye, off’n then. off with’t te cares of grayt labirs in
featherweiyght
to fill’d peayce hear. kwieght n dawn ter offle brayk of daygh, fer
labers n all theyr cayrs swem n tha vyne of chyl’s innycense. the
mayn of mans miynd te waffl n chyde tha wo’lds acres, tween ta bop
pop ruffl’s socks with dust n’less smeight of boon cin cayre the wo’ls
tonb wyth toons n traycks fer the idyl of idyls, grayve wayghts of
machynry’s taykes, the vectyr in wyst of feet and walkyn, perhaps
poets muss walc in a myst, amyst the massuse n misuses of tyme to
leishur. the tyme of talck is shyn te syn. symbyl loss teh grayve of
epick of’th molcyulds, n evyn then’t brystl teh limes of anonimis
cayres, n then to wystl frealy, but to bowdy s’frack n chartle hys alns
n t’eaven, n’ t’avyns yard ye sherk y’lose tha reckditewd n’honr of
chymes te gowd. bluph, thayn horr’r of th’ fleysch in blyndniss to
wryt in solytude, fer d’qowsts of lybrty g’vyn to the oth’rs evyl
spyryts, eyn ywuld brayv tha blud of gowd fer cann’d fish shuld
pov’rty
raiysed here i heayr, weyd’od tyrd off sum soyl parchd nd liknd to’th
forin silck, g*yv berth te diffint tymins of spyryt, wryttn in blud or
wryt in luv, shuld’ve travyled oyne teh the magyc of th’myls o’th
day’rn, she for’ner of werks, to savygis en toyl offrins o qolp. i hear
f’martyn luthyr kyng’s ilk, reborn t’be lykened to’a for’ners silck. so
spayk’m theyn, a’top tha mont’ayn cropp *
brayvr, the wo’ls waye ought heyre, to man n man comune crossd
decyds, n’therefor to speyk into faytes theyr werks of art truist’r
desyr’s, maykn of myths that cross tuh trust
b*tt, th’ogur of ryddls confyds’t wayndrlus, so lyttl to reaysyn
in such youth, brayvr to confyd reas’n to raycing, the juoys o’
speeyd’n, absur’d clymes of tyth, te shayr of men in cayvs suddinly
collaps, or t’lobstr’s n geenys whos trust confyded te rebyrth ohv
mayn, eayten by meyn of mynd
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