Black and White Poetics - Episode 10


Well it’s gonna be a long hot summer
And though that may not sound like quite a bummer
I assure you that the numbers
That it ain’t great
For things to heat up in this way

What should have only taken place
At the dawn of each millennium
Is now about to happen
Every twenty years, at minimum
Sprinkle it with cinnamon
It’s still a bitter wind to spin
Into a gentle breeze
A symptom of our grand disease
Kinda hard to be at ease
When we can’t even see the trees
From underneath the seas

Smoke fills the sky
Passing all the houses by
While the helicopters fly
And we all try
Just not to die

Well hot damn, Pakistan
It’s hotter than a clam, man
Up to 128
I don’t understand, man
Do you have a plan, man?
Can you make a stand, man?
Can I get a hand, man?
Or is you in the sand, man?
Moscow burnin up like a sinner
From the summer to the winter

Clouds of fire
Enshroud the higher
Power’s domain
And it’s ours to blame
For in this hour of pain
We are sour and lame
And so how are the flames
That tower right above our frames?
Vegetation frustration
Cause of strange precipitation
And it’s not just concentrated on a
Single Christian nation
It’s on everybody

Like a work of van Gogh
It can snow
A little bit
And still be
Burnin’ up
Like unattended onions
This isn’t something fun, it’s sin
When life depends
Upon our whim
And in response
We grin
And stroke our chins
Like we all got it mapped out
And on that
I’ll cast doubt

The extreme
Shifts in scene
Might seem
To mean
That we’re living unclean
But it’s a lot more sinister than that
Matter fact
I would even say
It’s something straight outta
The bottom drawer of the counter
Where flames run wild
Oh, child

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