Funky Cold Medina - Tone-Loc (w/ Lyrics)

Honey Badger Liveth

 
   "Honey Badger Liveth"
   
   Don't know the details.  Don't need to.  Bullshit resides there.
   Anyway, the mother of a honey badger shoves the baby in front of a scorpion and allows her child a few stings.  Introduces him to more venomous creatures along the way; next, he's an adult, can fight a cobra, get bit, die, two hours later--he's freaking resurrected.  No horseshit Wang.  No horseshit Jack.
   Is now the time to again mention that I love the American truck driver?  Guess not.  Yup, and the American badger and coyote hunt together.  A predator''s synergy.  How weird is that?  Or is it?  Come on, now.  Second unto the Great Spirit, like an old man trickster, alongside a ferocious fighter, like unto the mighty wolverine.
   Nature is talking.  Listen.  
   But what do I know?  I still remember the 1970's and a peanut farmer's dream.  But old Jimmy is still kicking it.  Good for him.  

Doctors--drug-dealing scum?

 
   "Doctors--drug-dealing scum?"
   
   If a certain herb was legal; next, the pharmacies would go out of business.  King David:  "Wine to make man's heart happy, and herb for the service of man."
   Plenty of people use herb-derived medicine; moreover, never get addicted.  Some herbs can't kill; however, the shit modern physicians push can kill--it's wicked.  How do they know my serotonin needs fluxing?  Where's the evidence?  How do they know it is truly psychosis?  They don't!!!
   They are in their world; thus, be in yours.  You alone own your own temple--not them.  If you need it; next, take it; otherwise, don't let your doctor play drug dealer to you.  Know all about your medicines.  In one day, an American physician can prescribe more poison than a kid on the street does in a year.  But he's a doctor--he's educated, and a noble man.  Is he?  Nope.  Some might be; however, most are not.  Got that piece of paper that says they're smart; then, they start ripping the souls out of good people.  It's a sinister system.
   What's a marijuana cigarette gonna hurt you, if you don't act a fool and watch porn or waste the gift on playing video games and being a nobody?  What's a beer gonna kill you?  But their prescriptions will--yes, they will, and they do, every damn day.
   Some are sublime.  Some actually heal.  Others keep you hooked, or the doctors and their continual chant keeps you hooked.  The naughty nurses questioning you, putting doubt into your sub-conscious, over and over again, until you are a slave to them.
   Fight.  Spit your tobacco on the ground, and fight.  We all got it coming, don't let the bullshitters take you out.  

Laser-Like, Old Glory

 
   "Laser-Like, Old Glory"
   
   No studying to figure this out.  No practice; however, perfect practice makes perfect, not just practice; regardless, wanted to get an old Dodge; next, paint her electric blue, with Old Glory on the top; then, write GENERAL GRANT up there, and give it a proper number, though only some of us are limited by numbers.
   My step-dad told me:  "Boy, where every flag is, there's an angel underneath."  And every flag mind you, not just ours.  No flag should be burned, for men died under that flag, even if they were of the yutz family. 
   I'm too afraid to tell my shrink or priest my real problem.  I won't totally and sincerely own my German heritage.  Always felt guilty about it.  My Grandma Bertha was from the stock of German immigrants during the Second World War, and my step-dad always called her an SS Stormtrooper--it scared the hell out of me.
   Bertha was mean, tough, green fire in her eyes, and loved pastry.  One night she smoked two packs of cigarettes, ate a whole box of chocolate covered cherries, and drank near a damn gallon of Maxwell House--that's living.  And she did.  Never was sick during her modern existence.  
   Big Bert.  Tough as a fireproof memory.  So alive.  

Miss not high school, not college

 
   "Miss not high school, not college"
  
   Al Bundy (spelll'n?), for he played high school football, and that is true pride, madame.  Anyhow, step-dad has Penn State game on--yup, love the college beat of real school drums during the pigskin pitch, for Big Daddy, Bubba Cheese himself, doesn't allow pro-football on in here, save to mollify the invaders.
   Brenda and Dylan--the prom.  Brandon gets drunk and wrecks a rich father's car.  Sounds kinda college; however, was not; still, I can only imagine.  And how do I know about Sgt. Bilko?  Cause there were reruns, you putz.  And I dreamed to be a welder or onion farmer.  My Mom said:  "Keep dreaming."  And that the surfboard would carry my skinny ass away into Atlantis.  She is a creepy yet lovely woman.  And my dog is really weird.   
   Just want to throw a shout-out to Holland, Pierce, and James for all the quasi-cowboy days in Arkansas.  One dude fought in modern war as an officer, another drives a V-8, and the other is just bad ass, with a pet alligator.  We've all been around.  And pretty cool.  Pretty cool.
   Yet, there are Crusaders from ancient times, and we are no greater.  
   

Sleepsong - UCD Choral Scholars feat. Emily Doyle

Fox condemns trap, not himself

 
   "Fox condemns trap, not himself"
   
   A quote from the mystic, William Blake--a mere tradesman, having died a penniless old man, but remembered forever.
   Today, the American Coyote is sometimes referred to as vermin.  He's only trying to survive, just like you.  Metaphorically, he has a mortgage, kids to send to school, a nagging wife, yet he mates for life, usually.  And if you kill a coyote; next, ten take his place.
   Forgive us, as we forgive those.  Snakes have a purpose too.  So, we don't judge, for we know--they're snakes.  It seems God has built us all for war, for that singular purpose.  One way or the other, you will die too.  Unless you're one of the 600,000 that mysteriously disappear each year around the globe. 
   Sure, most are put in frozen shoes, though it didn't work on Rasputin, the mad monk; nevertheless, some are possibly in a state of rapture, if we can say that, and we can, for we can say anything, mostly.
   So, don't get the blues.  Your sister wants your boyfriend.  Your brother gets aroused around your wife, underneath the Thanksgiving table--this is how it is.  However, there is the ascetic.  The voyaging puritan, sailing eternally on the Santa Maria, and while he may slip in the slime of others, mostly--he's an okay guy.