Turntable

Spinning ’round and ’round since 1521. 

Above the bureau in my room,
Is a turntable filled with gloom
With a sturdy disk chanting rhymes
And a filthy needle against the lines.

With the air’s cool breeze in the morning
It rhythmically plays along,
Sugar-coated songs in the tune of temptation,
It goes on and on
With the frantic buzzing of city cars,
The record plays some more lies
With the sound of shuffling soles against land,
The music starts to sound like mad.

It’s always during these times-
When the town seems alive,
When the courtroom’s full of dimes
When the butterflies have all arrived-
That the music becomes more loud
Like a church bell in my ears
Chiming from time to time to turn the gears.

The music sounds too good to be true
The words taste like cherries in my lips
The melody takes my mind away
And I dance along to the beat of its heart.

But I know what’s real and what’s not
Now after I’ve seen the real side,
When the king has been crowned
And the whole kingdom has bowed,
The people in the hall are all in trance.

They clap their hands and sit back tight,
Following the orders and keeping right
They jump and fall and don’t risk a gasp
Someone screams “Can somebody make it stop?”

But the voice was just swallowed by the louder sound
And men in blue came and grasped him hard,
Clutched his neck and took him out
While the record spins round and round.

Some just stirred, and some woke up
While some of them faked their smiles
The music sounds like an angel’s kind,
But they surely came from an evil’s mind.

So, one more time
I’d like to ask,
Who would dare to make it stop?

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Spill it out, bruh.

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