Wrong Horse – Jared Paul

Sometimes, I feel like we at MIT;
you and me set to disagree,
chorus of supporters up under your feet,
backed by awards and more prestigious degrees.
“The Fields Medal!” they shout and they scream,
thirsty little birds chirpin’ worms in they beak.
Balloon circus whistles burst when they speak
perfect circles from pedestal perches that squeal
how success coulda been real
if only I’d done more than counsel vets in the field.
In a world of those who endlessly need,
there ain’t no vested register for my type of expertise.
No measure of wealth, no measure of self;
but if every moment I gave was dragged out the shadows
and lashed upon these gallows in plain day,
I’d still be honored by my weight & tally of space.

Doubt what I say, but see what I do.
See what I mean; this ain’t about you.
This is my life right now, not just a verse.
Stand by my lines, action for every word.
This is my light house now, made my own course,
fought waves past the breaks and the moors,
braved the depths, legs kickin’, wit my face to the floor.
I’ve taken the bait, I’m racin’ the storm.
Won’t say what I traded to make it across;
I ain’t savin’ nothin’ for the swim back to shore.
Put chips on other dogs if you want.
It’s your choice, pick a lot, take your loss.
But the race ain’t over brother;
I see you bettin’ on the wrong horse.

A buck 60 to 200 somethin’ shows?
I’m still dead center- front fuckin’ row;
and you know that I love every second except
when 10 minutes into your set,
road fam’s fast breaking to gas face back stage.
Talkin’ through acapellas like a slap to my face.
Half-assed on stage, backin’ you up,
then first to jet when we packin’ the truck.
Forget “Get In The Van” – they whine and complain at the booth,
when the truth is – we should all be payin’ you
for lift off the ground, exposure to clouds,
a chance at a shot, a crack at the crowd.
Who would they die for?
Not you, let alone what they even believe in.
Who the fuck would they die for?!
My Ani DiFrancis shaped hat’s a boost.
Cats claim craft and struggles they whole Life,
but if they ain’t live what they sing, the reflection will FIGHT!

Brother, you’re the best I’ve heard –
ain’t scared of nuthin’. But if I play a bit coy,
I’d say nothing ‘cept for not making a Big Noise.
But you are whatever you say you are, man.
No matter what – connections you cut,
the sum of your funds, or acquisition of fans –
no question you were destined to surprise the world.
Hell-bent for leather. My lot needed time to learn.
Studied whether men weather, grew a fire to burn,
tasted its ash lined inside the urn,
then ingested its death, live to berth,
from protest to DCYF violence church.
Charon at the ferry, certified to guide the word
to the other side, survive the herd.
Clinging to your coat quotin’ lines of verse;
I still don’t think I’m better, but I don’t believe I’m worse.

This takes more than talent and practice.
That’s why you stress value on capital.
Finally, I see it’s necessary and practical,
but I can’t help obsess on excess packaging,
toxic dye, and material from foreign factories.
4,000 miles unnecessary travel.
If there’s a hundred percent recycled in affordable access,
then why the fuck use a virgin paper napkin?
It’s preach and it’s practice. You seek craft in an album?
I ain’t cocky, but if there’s a jocky more hell bent for the finish,
I’ll eat the whole horse – every swollen morsel.
Till then, this bitter meal for dinner – Relentless.
This lap is a record, this record is one lap – just the beginning.
You said we’d take it slow; I expected somethin’ different.
Others worked harder at music; I didn’t, and I admit it.
Just thought you wanted to be bigger in bringing the Great out of my Vicious.
So, here it is – finally finished and long overdue.
Congratulations – half the fucking album’s about you.