Brassfield Creatives - Ron's Lyrics

Free from Birth

Free from birth,
And adding to a dearth of ideas,
Ever since -- half-convinced -- and malcontent.

The day is behind me now,
And once I vowed
To know the truth,
To be free
Behind me now.

Hell-bent and being spent,
Where angels fear to tread,

Free from birth
But what's it worth to me?

You never see me now
Falling down or hanging around a bone of deep contention
With those party girls of the gods.

Free from death,
Since I went to eternity
I am free.
I am content.
Hell-bent, I'll take bow, hanging 'round,
And fraternizing with the dolls
Who take the plunge
Behind me now.
I am free.
Can you identify with me?

Birds on a Beach
(lyrics co-written with Mike Clopton)

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice.
Don't think twice,
About nothing.
Don't think twice,
Birds on a Beach.

The wind moves up or it goes around
As I top this ledge of ground
As sand blows in to fill my steps
I stop to wonder what comes next.

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice.
Don't think twice,
About nothing.
About the edge of nothing
On the verge of something .

The birds run up and they run back down.
They chase a wave that gives them ground.
I see that it's after five o'clock.
To you birds that doesn't mean a lot.

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice
About the mice
That ate your heart
Don't start
Birds on a beach.

Birds, I hear your advice.
You woudn't tell me to pay a price
for nothing.
Look at you track the wave
until you have that something.

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice.
Don't think twice,
About nothing.
Don't think twice,
Birds on a Beach.

Waves filling their steps...

Birds in the trees,
Give me advice
About the flights
Into nothing.
I'm on the edge of something
On the verge of nothing.

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice.
Don't think twice,
About nothing.
About the edge of nothing
On the verge of something .

The sun goes down to meet the sea
And either one of them could swallow me.
Hungry sand will devour the steps
That I leave behind me next.

Birds on a beach,
Give me advice
About the mice
That ate your heart
Don't start
Birds on a beach.

Probation
(lyrics co-written with Mike Clopton)

You're on probation,
You're always right
Below a hollow heaven
Left for the right.
Your resignation
Brings on the night.

You're online all the time, you're walking on ice.
Fate is so unkind, but you're always nice.

You're on probation,
In a dim light.
Sweating your ration,
You fight the good fight.
Pulling the levers
With all your might.

You always have to check in
Never be late.
The interviewer waits
To test you for hate.

You're on probation
Stand in the light.
And read the legislation
Slashing your rights.
Get back to your station
Guarding the night.

You're always standing tall, like walking on ice.
Guarding Heaven's wall, defending the night.

Eight Ball

Times being what they are,
The time being you've got to crawl.
Times being what they are,
Eight ball, in two dimensions.
Part-time just cursing and wishing.

Play time was in the past
Before your plane went down.
Part-time, two-time loser.

Before your plane went into a stall
You were a prime mover.
You worked to bridge the gap or fall
Into the lower, dark dimension.
Hard times spent working,
Get mentioned.

Unfurl your painted mast
To blow the world around.
Part-time, big-time chooser.

While other men were digging a home
You chose to be a chooser.
You watched them stuff their pockets full
Eight Ball.
From your dimension.
Part time just working
And wishing.

Black-balled for running free,
You tried to reach the runway.
Take off into three dimensions.

One time would be the last
One time, one place, one fall.
Last time, all-time loser.

Times being what they are,
The time being you've got to crawl.
Times being what they are,
Eight ball, in two dimensions.
Part-time just cursing and wishing.

Ideas
(music composition by Mike Clopton, lyrics & arrangement Ron Brassfield)

Ideas are needed
For us to live
Need them every day so give me some.
My mind is hungry, it must eat
But you say your candy is my meat
When you weigh my sayings
On your scale of values.

There's no need to rhapsodize--

On these mean streets, philosophizing's
Just a way of asking for the knife.
We know we can't fly
Beyond our idea of the sky.

We can't think of things beyond the moment.
We can't think of things but as they are.
We can't think, but what our thoughts are dancing.
Dancing in the patterns of the stars.

The circuit's closed --

But up for hire...

They say a foundry's good for firing
Up the things that life's worth living for.

Ideas are good in proper place.
You throw your penny in my face.
But I'm a bigger spender than you'll know.

The fish that swim upon the sea
Have eyes like yours which look at me,
But they dont't tell the water where to go.
No.

Overkill

Over kill
Numbs the senses
For awhile, yes,
After a time even overkill fails to be
An escape from offenses.
Can't outrun the hurting in memories
From a violent past
And a desire for overkill.

Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.

Pathological times, and terrorizing their minds,
You use whatever works 'til it's shafted.
Brittle to the touch, so you gotta dress it up.
So you work and bite the dirt, when you work
You can be used up.

Well, the people gotta eat, so you give a little feast
But you can't have all the beggars in.
You're gettin' kind of old, and the hearth is gettin' cold.
And you've gotta watch that kind of thing!

Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.

Well you've gotta call the boys
Who could take a little joy
In knockin' heads to loosen up.
And you've gotta call the man
Who could crush you in his hands,
Let him know just where to send the checks.

Done. Done over. Overdone.
Done. Done over. Overdone.
Done. Done over. Overdone.

It's all in fantasy if you stay at home, you see,
And many say it's better there.
Where you can scan a little blood,
And see a little lovin'
And never have to leave your chair.
Well you've found your superstore
Now you've gotta pay some more
For safe passage to your car.
'Cause scatological times,
Are paralyzing their minds,
You're gonna pay until you're tattered!

Over kill
Numbs the senses
For awhile, yes,
After a time even overkill fails to be
An escape from offenses.
Can't outrun the hurting in memories
From a violent past
And a desire for overkill.

Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.
Done. Done over. Overdone. Then done some more.

Zen TV

Don't know about you, but as for me,
I've seen enough of this terrible century.
Don't know if it's gonna do any good,
But I have to live like I think I should.

I just want to say, can you see?
We each are a miracle entity,
And if you count your breaths every day,
You just might enter a state of grace.

Radical ideas, now clear your head,
But keep moving, don't be took for dead.
Now you switch to Zen TV,
Turn the channel to eternity.

Now I know that you're much like me,
You really wanted to be free.
You're trying to miss those human wrecks,
With their false idols and crazy sects.

How real do you think we can be?
We're all gonna vanish in history.
And it seems that we do every day,
Let's take our minds on a holiday,
Yes, it seems that we do every day,
Turn on the Zen and go far away.

Watching -- watching
Zen TV
To clear your head
Clear your head.
Clear your head.
Clear your head.

Modernwasm

Well, I've heard it said that ciphers of regression
Will multiply in times of political repression.

While a lot of people sink into oblivion,
Watching violent games and vapid television,
While the newsdirectors misdirect attention,
With a lot of people blogging in the meanwhile,
While the admen take admission -- at the turnstiles.

We got Modern-wasm -- and whatsisism.
Re-presentations -- and cynicism.

Mercenary armies press will never mention,
Plunging hard into the strategies of tension,
With the public never paying much attention,
Living on extended credit in the meanwhile,
Trying to make it to the exurbs -- while it's worthwhile.

With the politicians, bringing on Fascism,
Keep the natives restless, threatening a schism,
With the people's goals divided into factions,
Smothering the soul and brightening the fashions.

With the culture warriors marching ever onward,
Hectoring and bitching, sounding like they warn ya,
While their paymasters plot strategies to corn ya,
Mixing up the ones who barely learned to read books,
They hang the population on their tent hooks.

The people can be instantly excited.
But their desires will never be requited.

We got Modern-wasm -- and Feudalism.
Repress-entations -- and hypnotism.

With the globalists now killing their own vassals,
While they place the blame on the ones they want to conquer
And the misled sheep will play along with evil
'Cause they do not have the courage to even see it.

We got Modern-wasm -- and Futile-ism.
Disinformation -- and hip-know-tism.

The arguments cannot be disentangled,
While the moving men come up with other angles.
We ponder which celebrities are worth more,
While the oligarchies get away with murder.
(Mass murder!)

To realize the truth will cause enragement
Promote the rise of social -- disengagement.
Modernwasm!

We got Modern-wasm -- and whatsisism.
Re-presentations -- and cynicism.