lirik lagu dizraeli - bomb tesco
“1… 2… 3… 4…”
who’s this?
another rapper with a messiah complex
thinking when i write a concept, it stops the nonsense
but god chuckles, so i let go
playing african drums in the carpark of tesco
my heart is vast and growing
i speak in paradiddles
casting poems out through the drab and the drizzle
that drives down
and penetrates the shoppers’ coats
one office bloke gives me a look like “you can’t stop this bro”
but i can bang a drum until my hands fall apart
and if it makes one shopper dance that’s my calling answered
my reason for playing the evening til the morning after
carry my flame like stigmata through the falling darkness
and the rising light
i hit the goatskin
the nature of sound means it always finds an opening
this time i’m hoping it might find your lughole
and if it does i’ll flood your subconscious with a drumroll
with the movement. what? the movement
none of your rulers can stop the movement
because it moves in the veins of the movers
their brains and their boots
and the strains of their music
it’s the movement. what? the movement
none of your rulers can stop the movement
because it moves in the veins of the movers
their brains and their boots
and the strains of their music
“this is your time… bomb tesco”
[?]
that’s my primal ish, son
my tribal rhythm bounces somewhat manically in the cavity of your sinus system
in order to fill your mind with this ethereal medicine
you might just find yourself beatboxing in the cereal section
or tapping 4/4 beats on tins of corned beef
or slapping a solo on a slab of mature cheese
the manager’s called steve
and he comes over to chat to you
saying, “please do not practice drum patterns on cans of tuna
it’s very distracting to the consumer”
but in mid-opus steve freezes and his eyes switch focus
he grabs a pack of kit-e-kat
starts to shake a latin rhythm with it
and the shelf-stacker, dave, is rapping bits of lyrics
he’s very gifted
and within a minute delores from storage has chipped in with a sung chorus in zulu
they never knew she could do that
it’s hard to believe steve is beating the b-ss on two vats of margarine
and dawn, from customer services, is busting verses over the p.a
and gary who has a nervous twitch and a weak brain
is stamping out the hardest beats on the counter of the pharmacy
scattering paracetamol rather anarchically
before long the whole supermarket’s deep with raw song somebody’s even found some frozen cod they can play chords on
four long hours later you step out in the fading light
with a new perception of sp-ce and time
in the carpark, a strange guy is playing a djembe
what a weird way to waste a wednesday
in the carpark, a strange guy is playing a djembe
“what a weird way to waste a wednesday”, you say
“folks, can i just get you to go “the movement” one more time? [?] just get you all to really shout it…”
“1… 2… 3… 4…”
we’re the movement. what? the movement
none of your rulers can stop the movement
because it moves in the veins of the movers
their brains and their boots and the strains of their music
it’s the movement. what? the movement
none of your rulers can’t stop the movement
because it moves in the veins of the movers
their brains and their boots and the strains of their music
it’s the movement. what? the movement [x8]
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