(bene)
Sme starí jak svet, v ktorom blues bolo mladé,
blues bolo všade. Daj mi pade!
Sme zápisky bláznov, čo sa desia tých,
čo hlásajú, že sú hlasom generácie. Srať na nich!
Bo my občas netušíme ani to,
či vôbec môžeme hovoriť sami za seba. Bro, platí to?
Desíme sa davov a hlúposti
a hlupákov v dave a hlupákov všade.
A ešte šedi v tom svete, kde blues už je staré.
A tak máme rap, čo šepká, keď treba kričať,
a kričí, keď by mal držať hubu.
Sme tak starí, že si pamätáme, že fičalo Fubu.
Bojíme sa tých, čo majú názor na všetko
a k tomu patenty na pravdu.
Vraj vyštudovali vysokú školu života
a ja pochybujem, či vôbec dokončili základku.
A vraj pravda je niekde uprostred.
Tak Roland, prosím, daj môj vokál trocha do strán,
lebo by som sa asi prepadol od srandy,
kebyže hentí ma majú brať vážne.
A svet vôkol furt tvrdí, že nie sme v kríze.
Akurát nerešpektujeme slobodu slova. H?
Lebo nemôžu na steny kresliť hákové kríže
a dôchodca suplujúci tajné služby si to zlízne.
A tak píšem, nech kričím, nech amplitúda skacká,
lebo je neprípustné označiť nácka za nácka!
A tak to tu hnedne, žumpa preteká,
a ja len ziapem žvásty, bo neviem viac.

(lyrik)
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
ktorá je aj pre mladých,
interkonekt, jeden svet,
rasizmom sa nikto nechváli.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
v ktorej propaganda, hoaxy sú len sranda,
ktorá nás má pobaviť
a len dvojito overené fakty sú pravda.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
ktorá sa na nenávisť nechytá,
ale na rozvážne múdro hej,
časovaná bomba netiká.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
v ktorej neni za päť minút dvanásť,
psi sú dole z reťazí, žereme menej mäsa a
nechceme sa uškvariť kvôli CO2.
A niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
kde rap má čo povedať a je bomba
a nielen random rým hrôza, nielen
motivačná próza a nielen póza, čo nemá obsah.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
kde tvoja sídlisková krčma crew
rozjíma nad pivom a pálenkou o porozumení
a nepodlizuje sa zlu.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
kde si v prvom rade slobodný individuál
a až potom rasa, štát, prvok, ovca,
koliesko, súčiastka či dav.
A tuším sa mi nezdá, že keď spravíme v sebe niečo,
tak bude z toho niečo,
lebo keď nespravíme nič,
tak bude z toho nič.
A tuším sa mi nezdá ani to, že potom
jeden, druhý, tretí, štvrtý politik
ti s blahosklonným úsmevom
naští, naští, naští, naští, na tvoje sny.

(james p. honey)
nobody said it would be fair or light humoured - distant flare, red mist on a red horizon.
this is scalping country.
nobody said it would be fair or light humoured - go stare someplace else, you’re spoiling my shellfish hors d'oeuvres.
parasite publicist. sorrow sings a sad song in the feeble light of a wounded moon.
drizzle came on like a spangle of sequins streaking down on growling window pane.
another day in the death of a slow colonial comedown.
motorway. allotment. library closure. popcorn politics.
supermarket strip lights like police truncheons erect at peaceful protests.
celebrity sightings and exciting cover stories of displaced immigrant war victims drowning in overloaded makeshift boats in frozen waters.
reflections of a flickering monitor screen on varnished plywood.
notes towards an apology - a clutter of vignettes:
get a bunch of celebrities on a beach doing yoga, beam it out and drag it over a whole season of programming, a success spanning decades, accolades they rain down.
finally you've found a thing you can be proud of take some responsibility for your wellbeing.
stop listening to the radio or reading newspapers - little more than hatred to be found - as diverse as a divas walk in wardrobe.
slow motion close up of the shiny chevrons on the shoulders of a soldier dead in this place of plenty.
this is scalping country.
nobody said it would be fair - distant flare red mist on a horizon.
this is scalping country.
____

(bene)
We’re from the good old world where blues was young
Blues was everywhere, blues was punk
We’re memoirs of the fools who fear voices
Claiming to be voices of a generation, giving no choices
Because sometimes we don’t even know
If we can speak for ourselves, bro.
We’re scared of masses in their stupidity
And the stupid in their masses when they’re bold
And of the greyness of that world where blues is old
And so we have rap that whispers when it needs to shout
And when it needs to shut up it shouts out loud
We’re so old we wore Fubu and were proud.
We fear those with an opinion and a knife
They have a patent for truth that sounds cool
They say they studied at the university of life
But I wonder if they ever finished grammar school.
And they say the truth is somewhere in the middle
So Roland, put my vocal a bit to the sides
Because I would probably die laughing
If they ever listened to my advice
And the world keeps saying it’s not bad at all
We just don’t respect their freedom of speech
Because they can’t draw a Swastika on the wall
And a pensioner exposing them pays the toll.
And so I write to scream, the amplitude flashes
Because they say you can’t call a fascist a fascist
And it’s all turning brown, the sewage overflows
And I'm just shouting my bullshit, I can’t do more.

(lyrik)
Sometimes it seems we live
in a country for young men
Interconnected, one world
Where no one is proud to be a racist, when
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where the propaganda and the fake news
are just a joke meant to make us laugh
And only double checked facts are true
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where there’s no place for hate
But a lot of place for wisdom
No time bomb waiting to detonate
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where the clock is not at five minutes before The End
Where dogs are free to run and we eat less meat and
And we don’t want to die because of CO2 and
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where rap has a lot to say and is earnest
Not just a random mixture of rhymes, not just
A motivational pose and a pose without purpose
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where your local pub crew
Is talking about understanding
and not endorsing evil over the brew
Sometimes it seems we live in a country
Where you’re a free individual most of all
And the nation, the race, the sheep
The wheel, the mass mean little if at all
And I guess I’m not wrong to say that when
you create something within you create something without
Because when we create nothing
Surely nothing will ever come out
And I guess I’m not wrong to say that in the end
With a smile on their faces
One, two, three, four politicians
WIll come and piss, piss, piss
…on your dreams.