Paroles Somethin' For The Kids de Astronautalis

Textes et Paroles de Somethin' For The Kids

Me and Fat Joe were riding in the backOf an industrial-strength delivery vanI couldn't catch a clear view of the driver's faceBut I could tell it wasn't a feminine friendThe ground plans for battle were all laidWe were just taking some time to kick it with grapes and parlayIt was just him and me in a van with the gate and gayWe taste the grapes and spit the seeds in the streetThe highway was a scalpel splicing the sands an impressive impressionOf man's demand for the connection of landsI look back at Joe and laughI give the grapes a puff and a pass spitting another seed out of the backJoe squints his eyesLets out a sound that can only be described as a laughter and a sad goodbyeHis pale olive fingers pry another one of the fruits off the vine"We should return here in ten years time." I ask him why"So we can drink the wine from the orchard that is grown from the seeds we alone cast aside."As the sun sunk lower on the sand, dust sprayed from the tires that picked up the grainsDisplayed them in spiralsAnd I held the last grape up to eclipse the sunThe breeze plucked it from my fingers and the lunch was doneFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allMe and Tupac Shakur sat inside a donut shopSharing a dozen and watching the coffee coolOne by one the box slowly emptiedFrom the cakes to the crullers and at last the fanciesPac sighed aloud so I could hear him"Donuts are communism"I asked him why, he said,"Better in theory"We laughed and scratched the sleep from our eyesHe said, "This is ridiculous, 12 is too much, half a dozen wastes our timeBut every time we order twelve thinking we can handle itAnd every time we end up pissed because we made our stomachs sick"We both laugh a bit and gingerly sip our coffeeHis fingers scrape the tabletop and he digs in softlyAnd I watch him there, carving, scraping, both sitting in silenceAs he engraves his name with the word "West side" beside itAnd underneath the orange veneer of the donut shop gearThere's an earthy brown flesh that excavation makes appearAnd year after year Pac and I return thereTo the table that he claimed with the matching bench chairsChug the last of our coffee and stand to leaveWave to the clerk, she says goodbye in ChineseClutching our sick stomachs we both struggle to speakShake our heads, split our waists, and say, "See you next week"Father was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at allFather was an engine driverGrandpa fought the warHope that I can maybe size upLeave my mark at all

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