[Lyric] P is Phairwa (Colby Brown Marron)

Martin luther you lik'n men to dreem toff n bit wen ye ilk of whiot

Hens n theyr cares to draft or milk, n tha whol' place of abstrakt

Menchins is all a'loft to tha bilk ova ternd blaft man, who lyvd unter

A kilt of uncertitude, blasphymy of cares y'lust n chastn a duplicitos

Spyryts awayqnyn n tha rash ityms of'a lost gods rancyr. But sons of

Mead, who drynk'n theyr hony and mayk labers of rust to steel frake

The ore to milk, heylpliss to discare of one whyte lyfe ov tarn

Te the oyne onis of byrden you tha bayrns fer th' byrn

( ye quill tha byrd). To'r laffter in peayce y'barqin wit n miyght to

Vylences and unkynesses of all't whyte lyknesses, a'scornd n

Scorchd hist'ries, but byrdеn him none tha ochre
Of him twyst n' chaffe 'way, but brayvе s'conds a'for the wilt



Ahh, y'say n'the myght and myth of werks to teach, but grav'n idols

Mayk no qayrs to the whins n choyc ov even oyne grayt labir

Yuletyde speeych n tire fir wells of wits then

I hear ye, off'n then. Off with't te cares of grayt labirs in

Featherweiyght



To fill'd peayce hear. Kwieght n dawn ter offle brayk of daygh, fer

Labers n all theyr cayrs swem n tha vyne of chyl's innycense. The

Mayn of mans miynd te waffl n chyde tha wo'lds acres, tween ta bop

Pop ruffl's socks with dust n'less smeight of boon cin cayre the wo'ls

Tonb wyth toons n traycks fer the idyl of idyls, grayve wayghts of
Machynry's taykes, the vectyr in wyst of feet and walkyn, perhaps

Poets muss walc in a myst, amyst the massuse n misuses of tyme to

Leishur. The tyme of talck is shyn te syn. Symbyl loss teh grayve of

Epick of’th molcyulds, n evyn then't brystl teh limes of anonimis

Cayres, n then to wystl frealy, but to bowdy s'frack n chartle hys alns

N t'eaven, n' t'avyns yard ye sherk y'lose tha reckditewd n'honr of

Chymes te gowd. Bluph, thayn horr'r of th' fleysch in blyndniss to

Wryt in solytude, fer d'qowsts of lybrty g'vyn to the oth'rs evyl

Spyryts, eyn ywuld brayv tha blud of Gowd fer cann'd fish shuld

Pov'rty



Raiysed here I heayr, weyd'od tyrd off sum soyl parchd nd liknd to’th

Forin silck, gayv berth te diffint tymins of spyryt, wryttn in blud or
Wryt in luv, shuld've travyled oyne teh the magyc of th'myls o’th

Day'rn, she for'ner of werks, to savygis en toyl offrins o qolp. I hear

F'martyn luthyr kyng's ilk, reborn t'be lykened to'a for'ners silck. So

Spayk'm theyn, a'top tha mont'ayn cropp -



Brayvr, the wo'ls waye ought heyre, to man n man comune crossd

Decyds, n'therefor to speyk into faytes theyr werks of art truist'r

Desyr's, maykn of myths that cross tuh trust



Butt, th'ogur of ryddls confyds't wayndrlus, so lyttl to reaysyn

In such youth, brayvr to confyd reas'n to raycing, the juoys o'

Speeyd'n, absur'd clymes of tyth, te shayr of men in cayvs suddinly

Collaps, or t'lobstr's n geenys whos trust confyded te rebyrth ohv

Mayn, eayten by meyn of mynd