Sometimes I ask myself where I belong,
Whether I’m right or wrong
To feel such love for something from so long ago and miles away
Sometimes I tell myself my place is there,
That my music comes from where
My ears have longed to go but my eyes and my feet won’t let me be
Still I’m going to sing
Gonna pack all my cares and woe… The sun, the Moon….
The moon is the same moon above you…
Someday my Prince will come… se você dizer…
The sun, the Moon….
Phoney rappers, they do not write… I want a rimshot hey…
And so I will follow where the roads lead to Shoobidoobidoobidooo
Loose heritage is what I stick to
Hope you think it my way too
Looking for a way
Out of this confusion
I’m looking for a sign
Carry me home
Let me lay down by a stream And let me be miles from everything
Rivers of my Fathers
Can you carry me home
Carry me home
Rub your soul against the concrete And the concrete is my smile
Got to change my way of living Got to change my style

Let me lay down by a stream Miles from everything
Rivers of my fathers
Could you carry me home Carry me home
(italic lyrics by Gil Scott Heron)

Let’s analyse the difference between me and you
from a new point of view
But shall we keep our own liquidity out from this survey?
Let’s try to evaluate the degree of beauty
in the lives we both live
Again let’s leave our income out of this study!
Consider that I do what you can’t do
Can you say the same too?
Can you sing or play flute?
Sure I don’t need as much time as you would
to learn what you do
You’re so full of yourself, from your smell one could tell
You believe that you’re far better than anyone else
I’m proud I live my life as a queen while
You’re only working
What’s your job? Here’s my job, there’s no job like my job
There’s no job in my job, while your job is a job, so what’s your job?

No money for you, Bird, this time, not this time.
Last thing I remember is me opening that letter:
“Dearest Mr. Parker, your request’s been declined.
Capital is slim and jazz is uneconomic, presently.
You may know, sir Parker, Public Administration
tends to favour music inclined to relaxation.
In other words, if you tried to play chords with no tensions,
smooth, melodic flows, quiet tones in a row,
we would love you so!”
No money for you, Bird, this time, not this time!

Simply sampling sensations,
Not too sentimental,
Though some of them may seem
To a non-seeing sight.
Hail to the height of hiding people,
Hiding from the holy heresy
Of a hollow happiness.
Rhythm, melody, harmony—
What everything is made of.
Floating over valleys of liquid flute melodies,
Lyrics of lifelong love lullabies.
Warm white milk as if it were a black magic,
Kissing little sister’s brown ocean eyes.
Skin of mine, skin of yours,
Brown skins that smell of sea.
Abcdefg—
Pillows cherish secrets of how you truly want to be.
HIjklmnop.

Dreaming while you’re leaving
That sometime again we’re meeting
Where strong winds blow
And where music is a
Flow we don’t know.
Cellos singing, lovers’ whispering,
Beauty is truth,
Truth is swearing, dreaming’s bleeding.
See, the sun is shining out
Although I’ve got
Thick curtains to protect me
When I’m like a lion in alarm—
And in a sudden
What I feel inside I can explain:
Simply one side joy and one side pain.
Keep your window open,
Hear my words unspoken.
Mem’ries of you, a child—
Can I portray your smile?
Tender as you linger on,
My love meanders.
Truly, it’s you whom I want to stay with later.
It’s all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Someone the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the bees
Which in the clover dwell.
(italics by Emily Dickinson)
Breathing in your silence, quiet, still, while I dance,
Dreaming while you’re leaving
That sometime again we’re meeting
Where strong winds blow
And where music is a
Flow we don’t know.
Cellos singing, lovers’ whispering,
Beauty is truth,
Truth is swearing, dreaming’s bleeding.
See, the sun is shining out
Although I’ve got
Thick curtains to protect me
When I’m like a lion in alarm—
And in a sudden
What I feel inside I can explain:
Simply one side joy and one side pain.
Sunny Rain.

Weeping out of here, next stop?
Here’s the story of a jazz singer looking for a gig,
Going round and round begging,
“Won’t you let me sing here please?
Pop? Something low? Background, not a show!”
Here’s our girl attempting to explain to the rude manager
How amazing a jazz performance can prove to be:
“Swing, backbeat, bebop up to free!”
“What? Sounds bizarre, no, not in my bar…”
Weeping out of here, next stop?

This is what I call a fake democracy.
Before we leave
Let’s fight to throw them all out.
Let’s think of an upright economy.
People, take the lead,
Find the way to be free.
Sun, shine on society’s dawn,
I’ll bring music, my one religion.
This is what I call a fake democracy.
Before we leave
Let’s fight to throw them all out.
If I ruled the world I wouldn’t rule at all;
I’d rather have a crazy ball.
Had I the smallest chance to control the high finance,
I’d definitely start to dance or go to France
Or organize a trance workshop.
And have the pope and bishops run a filthy pet shop, or
Check out the wheat crop.
Let ministers travel by bike, you’ll see them go on strike
’Cause they don’t like the hike.
I’ll tell my dislike always when I’m on the mic.
But if I really had to rule the world
I wouldn’t love the word “rule,”
’Cause since I was at school
They taught me how to rule makes one fool.
From Julius Caesar to Napoleon,
Kings transforming like chameleons—
On and on, on and on until power takes them on bad trips.
People taking sips from their nasty lips,
Begging for tips,
Like in my worst nightmare
Where we’re all inside a software.
And we think they care as they declare,
But meanwhile they’re being unfair.
And so we raise our children in the name of love
While somebody from above’s dressing vultures as white doves,
Turning our love into hatred.
We’re all frustrated to live in an adulterated system
Where the treetops glisten and opponents drink ricin.
So let’s fight for the end of this democracy—
Gerontocracy in plasticine faces.
Let’s leave our own traces
And leave this shit out of our spaces.

I’d really love to introduce myself to you, really!
Who I am, what I did, whom I’d like to meet,
But well, you know, I mean, I wouldn’t manage to—silly!
For I barely wave my hand when I see you on the street.
So if I don’t feel like, I don’t feel like, and that’s it,
And someone may well argue mine is a childish behaviour
‘Cause it’s an opportunity to move out of the shit.
Just think about the chance! Record your music with a major!
They keep on telling me that
I need a biography
To tell the people who I
Am in their reality,
No matter what I feel inside.
A good biography
To tell the people who I am in their reality.
Oh, yes I know, I’m not emphasizing myself the way I could
Nor struggling for the things just like a clever girl should,
And talent and commitment just ain’t worth a dime—
Profiting, exploiting, right place at the right time!
(They keep on telling me that)
I need a biography
(To tell the people who you)
Are in their reality
(No matter what you feel inside)
Write a good biography
(To tell the people who you)
Are in their reality.
I’ll never write my biography, no no no.
I’ll never write my biography.

When I hear your voice it seems like I hear a bell,
A magic spell running through my ears.
I just can’t stay still—
I’ll try but won’t succeed.
It’s me you lead
From a laugh to tears.
Sentimentally I’m practically slave of you;
Basically I’ll do what you want me to.
Sentimentally I’m practically slave of you;
Basically I’ll do what you want me to.

Just coming out of the studio,
Turn on my radio.
Same old shit: Oasis, Lady Gaga.
Why should any song need to sound like this?
No philosophy, no melody.
Dollars writing music—
Give me some more harmony,
Quality, rhythmical novelty!
Talking to my neighbour the other day,
“What do you like to play?”
Same old shit: Oasis, Lady Gaga.
Why are people following trends like sheep,
Looking expensive but being cheap?
iPods raping music—
I want some more poetry,
Wanna flee from this mediocrity.