Lyrics:
Willie Moore was a young man, his age 21 and he courted a damsel fair
Oh, her eyes were as white as a diamond after night and a wavy jet black wore
We are bruised, we are broken
But we are goddamn works of art
Works of art
The pieces of our hearts are gravitating together but
Before we could
We are bruised, we are broken
But we are goddamn works of art
Works of art
Pieces of our hearts are gravitating together but
Before we could be
Pass me not, O gentle Savior,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.
Savior, Savior,
Hear my humble cry,
While
to the listener
It's to the listener
It's to the listeners for those that have a ear for this
State of the art engineered for the mix
Eardrums are
Willie Moore was a young man, his age 21 and he courted a damsel fair
Oh, her eyes were as white as a diamond after night and a wavy jet black wore
I can see the tears filling your eyes
And I know where they're coming from
They're coming from a heart that's broken in two
By what you don't see
our art and perfect our lives
We need great golden copulations
When the true king's murderers
Are allowed to roam free
A thousand magicians
our art
And perfect our lives
We need great golden copulations
When the true king's murderers
Are allowed to roam free
A thousand magicians
know where the ones at
Baby just promise me if you go that you'll come back
[Outro: (x2)]
Believe me baby, Stevie baby
D-R-A-K-Eezzy baby
So do that
Halfway Home
by Rick Moore
The signs
that lie here are remains of Death
Grinding bones, screaming skulls
Broken by the lapse of time
Decay to powder, ashes to dust
Diminishing,
t-shirts laying on my bed
Listening Stevie Nicks on that broken pick up thing
Was gift not meant to break
Like my heart is was mistake
Do you buy her ice
the town I loved so well
Now the music's gone but they carry on
For their spirits be bruised, never broken
They will not forget but their hearts are set
I, spider, wait in hope with monolithic patience
My web shivering by starlight
Moist ice of tangled spittle
I can feel it
Pulsate though my feet
Are
at
I see irrelevance condoned by the delegates
Their regression is evident they own
What I been off
Fuck it since it's the samaritan's I sold
I'ma
My heart's broken, (mine's the same)
I still love you (make it plural)
You're so sweet!
The flowers smell sweeter, the closer you are
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, y'all know who this is boy, for real
The art of getting robbed
This is how we do Brooklyn-style, boy, you know what I'm
of the devoted in line:
We call it art, some call it a crime
it's the rap Michael Moore, like Bowling for Columbine
on drums, Fahrenheit, 9-1-1
Al Queda hit
We call it art, some call it a crime
It's the rap Michael Moore, like Bowling for Columbine
On drums, Fahrenheit, 9-1-1
Al Queda hit the Apple
chapter, cnd a whole new day
Don't let yourself get all caught up, In places you have been
We are all works of art
We are not broken, these are just scars
Sold your soul for some secular
Muzak that's wack
Plus you use that loop over and over
Claiming that you got a new style
Your attempts are futile,
How To Hate You
Nychow Moore
Yeah I know, and I feel when nothing's going right
Painful, sadness and a lonely broken heart
Disgusting, and Goodbye's
the land of broken goals
Just a cover and a back that you open and you close
"Where are all the pages?" The painter said "Defanged
I ripped 'em all out
.jpg/225px-R_Stevie_Moore_-_New_York_2013_(10599075054).jpg "R. Stevie Moore")
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