désolé.Plastic Swords
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song created                                

Monday, March 22, 2021 8:55:32 PM
song updated                               

Monday, March 22, 2021 8:55:32 PM
stations playing this song              
they got the stuff
Creativity is King
Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 3
IndieMusicPeople

 

















Audio Engineer Joe Todaro
Written by Mike Pufnock
Vocals by Mike Pufnock and Spencer Baracskai
Drums by Jon Tucker
Bass by Joe Todaro

No shoes and plastic swords and you,
were fighting invisible enemies.
At least not any that I could see.
But we marched on dutifully.
To a place where a faithful few were fathered in.
A place where you can be safe from your potential,
let it go to waste.

High stress and rubber checks, and I
I'm bowing down to my vices.
It feels so nice to be crippled at times.

The second son of the mother
The only name of the father
Fell in line with the brother
and detatched from all of the other ones.

Our legs are moving in the dark, our lungs are working more and more.
You are an olive branch
I rang the drums of war

I know what I am isn't what I was before
An ego driven maniac that I've been sprinting towards
Our legs are moving in the dark
Our tongues are working more and more. x
Song Comments

they got the stuff
I've broken many plastic swords over the heads of adversaries.


Creativity is King
Great energy dynamic and indie production make this cool track a perfect fit for the station. Welcome, désolé, to Creativity is King.


Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 3
— the ghazi, power of his sword.) his manslayer's gunwielder protended towards that overgrown leadpencil which was soon, monumentally at least, to rise as Molyvdokondylon to, to be, to be his mausoleum (O'dan stod tillsteyne at meisies aye skould show pon) while olover his exculpatory features, as Roland rung, a wee dropeen of grief about to sillonise his jouejous, the ghost of resignation diffused a spectral appealingness, as a young man's drown o'er the fate of his waters may gloat, similar in origin and akkurat in effective to a beam of sunshine upon a coffin plate. Not olderwise Inn the days of the Bygning would our Travel- ler remote, unfriended, from van Demon's Land, some lazy skald or maundering pote, lift wearywilly his slowcut snobsic eyes to the semisigns of his zooteac and lengthily lingering along flaskneck, cracket cup, downtrodden brogue, turfsod, wild- broom, cabbageblad, stockfisch, longingly learn that there at the Angel were herberged for him poteen and tea and praties and baccy and wine width woman wordth warbling: and informally quasi-begin to presquesm'ile to queasithin' (Nonsense! There was not very much windy Nous blowing at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!)


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