Текст песни Playing with Dynamite (Forty Psychic Frames) с переводом

WYATT:

I’m playing with dynamite

Looking at the faces and the pictures of all your

Friends friends, I might

Just set it all off and send you the ashes

That passes through my mind

Despite all the times I was blasting

This beat so loud around your parents' house

You looked out and saw the shadow of a 300D

That wasn’t me, but I was killing it

Forget it, you wouldn’t understand

I’m lighting the stick and then

BOOM! That’s it

ANTHONY:

Wyman on the ProCo, Charlie taking photos

Black and white twirlies, go slow on the shutter speed

Hit me up in the OK Hotel, this shit’s drawing flies

What the fuck be that smell?

At the Croc Cafe playing old school hits

We’re the opening act for 7 Year Bitch

Busting out glass in store front windows

Spray painting walls while we’re smoking that indo'

Fender Strats blast out of Marshall stacks

Strapped with gats underneath leather jackets

Camera man pans to 40 on the stage

CH barfing on the fans, cut the cord

Disengage

FORREST:

Verses stirring dust, don’t underestimate us

Vocal lances piercing, we fierce and it be best to trust

The sustenance that fuels us is potentially metaphysical

Straight from the heart and individual

The meaning critical, eternally residual

Essentially the validation of a spiritual connection

The inflection of a section of text is a lesson in delivery

Confess

Flow is inescapable, all the words unpredictable

Current pulls you underneath and refuses to let you go

Till you’re drifting free, in a sea of simile

And metaphorically speaking you’ll be blown away

By the sequence of events

Bringing you back, to present tense

Leaving you assured, unable to balance on the fence

We’re the realist, the illest, we fucking kill tracks to the max

There ain’t a fucking thing in the world to invalidate that

SCURVY D:

You can call me Breezy ‘cause I’m like a storm:

One minute I’m calm and the next I’ve tore down the norm

Walls get shorn as tornados are born

As my rage manifests into physical form

With habitual scorn, I hate you fakers and lames

You’ve weakened the game with your particular shame

And I guess I’ll have to swoop in and save the day

But first I blunt the spinach up and get blazed

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