[Sample: This Beat by the Jazzual Suspects]
[Intro: Jack Kerouac]
Now it’s jazz, the place is roaring, all beautiful girls in there, one mad brunette at the bar drunk with her boys. One strange chick I remember from somewhere, wearing a simple skirt with pockets, her hands in there, short haircut, slouched, talking to everybody. Up and down the stairs they come. The bartenders are the regular band of Jack, and the heavenly drummer who looks up in the sky with blue eyes, with a beard, is wailing beer-caps of bottles and jamming on the cash register and everything is going to the beat. It’s the beat generation, it’s beat, it’s the beat to keep, it’s the beat of the heart, it’s being beat and down in the world and like oldtime lowdown and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat
[Verse 1: Curtismith]
Hey, I’ve been stuck in this predicament
Lookin’ to preach for peace to all the ignorant
And so I beat the beat but still I’m lost see
I’m tryin’ to find the meaning as I’m eatin’ for a cause
And I feel the demon tryin’ to claw
And he’s a beast but Mito means to be the boss
Spittin’ raw, gifted entrepeneur
I’m lifted I don’t listen cause I’m fixin’ all my flaws
A reason to believe him as a rounded connoisseur
To see him through it seizing, please believe in him of course
He’s tryin’ to do it right the only way he can
So I’m beggin’ on my knees to the Lord I close my hands
Pray to the most high, Allah
Tellin’ him my worries like Papa
Never will you die, forever will
Keep you deep in my heart
And though you’re gone forever it ain’t tearin’ us apart
Part two of my life with The Big O
We can spark a J, pop a molly, that’s the lingo
Breakin’ down the doors cause you be my Freida Pinto
Trouble on the walls that I feel I need to let go
Let’s go down to the alley of my thoughts and lost dreams I forked
See forks on the road the course seems to wind so far down this long ass road
I gotta stay strong but my heart’s so cold
Some parts say fold, my heart says no
I ain’t a f*ckin’ soldier but I goddamn sow
I’m a goddamn kid with a heart that’s gold
The ego is the devil that I dropped down low
As I start to grow, hope I start to win
‘Cause all I got is love in this life of sin
I begin with the lessons from the sages
Tryin’ to be a king in the life of all these faces
[Outro: Jack Kerouac]
There’s no face to compare with Jack Minger’s who’s up on the bandstand now with a colored trumpeter who outblows him wild and dizzy but Jack’s face overlooking all the heads and smoke. He has a face that looks like everybody you’ve ever known and seen on the street in your time; a sweet face. Hard to describe, sad eyes, cruel lips, expectant gleam, swaying to the beat, tall, majestical – waiting in front of the drugstore. A face like Hunke’s in New York (Hunke whom you’ll see on Times Square, somnolent and alert, sadsweet, dark, beat, just out of jail, martyred, tortured by sidewalks, starved for sex and companionship, open to anything, ready to introduce new worlds with a shrug). The colored big tenor with the big tone would like to be blowing Sunny Stitts clear out of Kansas City roadhouses, clear, heavy, somewhat dull and unmusical ideas which nevertheless never leave the music, always there, always far out, the harmony too complicated for the motley bums (of music-understanding) in there