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lyrics

Conductor

Oh my drunken conductor, lend me your hands. Take a wrench to my best laid plans.
My stoned composer, lend me your ear. Share your thoughts and your untethered fears. 
My wrecked director, lend me your eye. Spill your ink on my precious designs.
Share your guidance.

He leaves a trail of pigment and text strung in his path like so many liquid bread crumbs on a map. If he strays from home his pen name will get him back. He’s painted the city sanguine; he’s brushed his lungs black. The streets hold the walls of his unassuming gallery. His rugged paws hold the hues of his pallet. He’d scout like-hearted recruits from the ruins of battlefields and invite them to fight for their passion. A human, a valkyrie. When he’d grace my studio, he’d stay on the balcony. Lick another rollie, take a sip and light the bogie. Wrote his name on a folding chair and the window in my vestibule so I’d remember him every time I entered. You’d swear never once in your life met a lush so prudent with his thoughts. If only that was true about his heart. If only that was true after dark, after a shot or too many, after the booze dulled that beautiful spark. 

My friend’s a smoker, and a lover and a soldier.

Oh my drunken conductor, lend me your hands. Take a wrench to my best laid plans.
My stoned composer, lend me your ear. Share your thoughts and your untethered fears. 
My wrecked director, lend me your eye. Spill your ink on my precious designs.
My drunken conductor share your guidance. The blind lead the blind just fine through the darkness.

His H.Q. was home for a stray few and sanctum for many refugees longin’ to make due. His kitchen table was engraved with visitors’ handles and stained with cigarette ashes and they always came through. I copiloted sessions of dope sonic inventions and wrote wild and reckless to those progressions. He slowed time with the tempo control slider. His methods are both violent and gentle. Explosive impressions. He’d flip a psychedelic sample into gibberish and sync it up sexy on some punk rock ricochet. Then hit a microscopic ramble of a melody and stretch it out to merge into his junkyard symphony. His eyes bluer than his mood somehow. His lies truer to his loosened self. Could use some help, and he ain’t scared to ask for it. I’m just worried he don’t think that he’s worthy of happiness.

See, my friend’s depressed. I hope that it’s okay to be a mess

Oh my drunken conductor, lend me your hands. Take a wrench to my best laid plans.
My stoned composer, lend me your ear. Share your thoughts and your untethered fears. 
My wrecked director, lend me your eye. Spill your ink on my precious designs.
My drunken conductor share your guidance. The blind lead the blind just fine through the darkness.

My friend’s a writer. My friend’s a smoker. My friend’s a crier and a lover and a shoulder.
His head’s on fire. His chest smolders. My friend’s just uses his extinguishers for throw ups though.
My friend’s a teacher. My friend’s depressed.
Our friendship’s taught me it’s okay to be a mess sometimes. 
But when it’s dire, I wish he’d slow down.
I hope he’ll try to quelle the fire in his soul now.
My friend’s a rider. My friends a soldier. 
An old soul with a young man’s aura.
His head's on fire. His chest smolders. He only uses fire extinguishers for throw ups.

credits

from Pressure of the Tempest, released March 9, 2020

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WATKK is an independent hip-hop label curating unapologetically unique music.

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