Текст песни Lupe Fiasco - Little Death

[Verse 1: Lupe Fiasco]Now bring it outLike a finger in the back of your mouth,Cherubs and cerebellum, Tara at Sarah's wedding,Sam marrying Sam,Band pushed upon the finger of Sam's hairiest hand.If that sickens you, you a bigot,If it doesn't, well, you're wicked,Such is life,Odd as Egg McMuffins at night,No answers, so let us watch these dancers.Structure reformed gracefully being bornOn the pallet of dark grays, concaves and spirals,Kaleidoscope into a Eiffel,It ripples, then it tidals,Vacillates, then it viralsBabylons, then it Bibles and others.And tell me of the spinning mothers,And today's mathematics for beloved,And beasts' bellies covered like the cummerbunds of butlers...[Chorus: Nikki Jean]How was your day? Can I make what you say,What I wanna hear, ‘cause I want you here?The hell that we raised to the heavens do anything forLa petite mort, la petite mort.[Verse 2: Lupe Fiasco]They keep the bottles just to make glass houses,Then climb up to the second floors and throw rocks out it,Then expect not a volley in reply,Some place vulnerable like probably in the eye.What of the chicken? What is it missing, is it dry?Did it die in some inhumane conditions so it didn't go relaxedAnd the tension from its demise pulled all of the flavor from the fat,And made it flat and rather lifeless?Well, there's a place that has a stunning turbotAnd more mercifully murdered Pisces,But barbaric are still the prices.It's rather niceless, apricot in dices and fromage slices,

My son will call risotto rices,If and when he's left to his own devices, well.How is your memory?Is it returning like a lemon treeTo bear bitter fruit of what you meant to me?Or was it slipping like permission, am I tripping like field?I feel I'm gripping but maybe the transmission,Still left out the life, also left out the will, grief,Will cheese never touch your teeth,Maybe like kosher beef.Is it real, is it real, is it real?Ha, hah![Chorus: Nikki Jean]Howl at the day, can I make you my prey?‘Cause I want you, dear, ooh, I want you, dear.The hell that we raised to the heavens make cemeteries forOur petite mort, our petite mort.[Verse 3: Lupe Fiasco]So glad you're back, but not glad at that you're glad.Where is the glamour in collapse?Where in the shatter of the facts shoves one back to a pattern of stab wounds?Swoon ridden goons consumed and driven mad soon,The atelier slowly fills with baboons,That other monkey business,Where killers go free ‘cause a junkie's a funky witness.Runny mascaras from the cunning mask wearers of death,Bygone errors sitting like two oil derricksSeparated by a sea of cooling num-nums,Reminiscing of an every day playing humdrum.Where recognition went unnoticed,And then solidified till it was stoic,We should've been poetsSomewhere between amateurs and grandmasters of iambic pentameter.[Chorus: Nikki Jean]How are your chains, do they make you behave?Keep you over here by your overseer?Fallen from grace down from heaven to memories floor –La petite mort, la petite mort.
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