Psychedelic Relic


Let's go home and spill some drinks 
And then see what the good Lord thiinks 
This is a poem about a man in my head 
He put up a fight but now he's dead 

He came out from his cover and he looked up to the sky 
He saw that it was black and he thought that he'd die 
He looked around and saw the demons come down 
He said, "This ain't right because this is my town" 

Good God, here comes the clash 
A landscape made of smoke and ash 
The people slaves to painted fruit 
Old Rock wades in an armored suit 

As the water gets higher Old Rock gets tired 
Losing faith in the things he once admired 
Moments later he lost sight of the sun 
And Old Rock was fighting every one 

Faith and art's getting torn apart 
Nothing but lies in your shopping cart 
It's right or left, it's lies or theft 
The writers are slow and the killers are deft 

The writers write and the singers sing 
But songs and poems are different things 
So the next time you're singing a song 
Think about to what you're singing along 

He fights for God, he's Rock 'n Roll 
He's got the blues and he's got the soul 
He ain't got pop but he's funky psychedelic  
He's long dead now but he lives on as a Relic                 


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