Provocation (of the pencil-pushing prophet.)

Get yours, get even. -Who said that? Are you in my mind?
Relax, dont have a heart attack, everything will be fine;
for now you can just think of me as a friend,
I'm here to make sure that you get your revenge.

-Get what? Are you crazy? I LOVE my job!
I haven't yet said a thing about work; that's odd,
that you think of your job and think of vengeance
but dont worry, i'm here to win back your independence.

But wait; I cant! I have a wife and kids and a car,
dont you think vengeance is going a little too far?
A family? A cheating wife and kids that call you a loser?
A family you're so ashamed to face that you've become a boozer?

A boss that literally spits in your face
-Not everyday. -Aren't you sick of this place?
This claustrophobic 4 metres by 4 cell,
this cubicle that was designed by my minions in hell?

How I hate it! -You hate it. -How i hate these walls!
Just wanna burn 'em. -Then burn 'em. -Burn every one of these stalls!
I wanna kick my pig-faced superior in his gutless balls
and run his face through the copier and have him take MY calls!

I wanna do all the things I wanna do before I'm dead,
hey pal, hey friend, are you still in my head?
Thanks for giving me the guts to fight these heathens and chores,
I wont take it anymore! -That's right; get even, get yours.

Plight (of the pencil-pushing prophet.)

One more morning for the mundane master
how did your life become such a boring disaster?
it's all proof read, edit, return to sender
you coulda been somebody, coulda been a contender
it's all rows, columns, figures and microsoft word
life forgot about you, or hadnt you heard?
it's all select, copy, paste, double click, repeat
children could have thrown fresh roses at your feet
it's all cubicles, screen savers and water coolers
some men are born slaves and others, to be rulers
it's all small talk, gossip, flat jokes and stale breath
you think anyone will mourn your death?

It's everything you hoped you would never become
it's the soulless survival to which you succumb
it's the small checks that sidestep you into the taxman's pocket
it's the plight of the pencil pushing prophet.

Trapped in hypothetical nostalgia

Trapped in hypothetical nostalgia,
I get no rest. Is it self induced,
this hypochondriacal cardialgia
stray memories of you have produced?
Haunted right down to my dubious core
by your disarming, incessant laughter
that heals me of each self-inflicted sore.
Banished to an imagined hereafter,
caught in a bliss that never did exist;
yet i can not long for liberation
for the mind is moot should the heart resist;
you're the price of my self-revelation.

A discarded man of baseless morals
dreaming sparkling diamonds out of corals.




You almost always know after you've met someone that they are not "the one". Sometimes you settle for them because you're tired of looking, alotta people are brave enough to keep searching and get lucky. I wrote this for the only person I ever met and let pass me by that I am still not sure about.

The myth

Look at the sheer size of my hand
you see where I'm going with this
forget the parts of me you dont understand
I am built like a pumped up fist.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Sweet
cos I knock them right off their feet
and onto their backside
for that last ride
to pleasure paradise.

Walls crumble when we tumble
they call it disturbing the peace
for anyone that may doubt me in the least
one glance at my pedigree and all doubts cease.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Quiver
cos I make them shiver
in places they didnt know they had sensations
I am discovering and conquering entire nations.

They've tried and tried to dispell the myth
i exist in flesh and bone
I make them moan and groan
as we align our chakras all night long.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Butter
I make them stutter
like their mamas didnt teach them to speak
they break into tongues as they hit their peak
I'm the Love-god, the sex machine, the super freak.

The Arsonist

Careful, Massa, you push real hard,
why you treat me like I is retard?
I work good, Massa, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I be forgotten.

Each time, Massa, each time you push,
I hear the voice of the burning bush,
but I no say nothing, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I go rotten.

The voice, He hear me cryin' out,
He ask me what I cry about,
I no have rest, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I hit the bottom.

The voice, He tell me be prepared,
the night is falling, I no be scared,
He tell me now sing what I desire,
wake up, Massa, your cotton catch fire.