Slippin, sly lippin' 'n' livin'
Make the incision,
The decision,
That leads to peace, now listen,
Look at that crease,
That fold, paper's old,
Ceases value,
He teases "Sandu" from his fingers,
Sound lingers,
Despite indifference, he insists it's,
Notes, like these,
That make him, pleased
Satisfaction, despite no reaction,
A failed star, wasted,
Rail cars and stale scars pasted,
Free actions of a man on the loose.
He's got a plan, no excuse for failure,
Yet it's that very plan that stands to lead him on a path of empty hands and empty band stands,
That man's gotta get out.
But how to do it?
Without, a means, no way to get through it.
It seems,
That no matter the way you live, you're doomed,
The slow pitter patter of rain within your room,
Echoes, Prosecco, spilled on the floor and pills for sores, you want more.
Music life, Truth is right, Youth is ripe,
But no longer are you youthful, you lose full days to nothing.
Lusting, wasted time, you've wasted prime years of life, rusting,
Fading.
Fading.
False friends, few finished feats and flawed feelings felt for far, far to long, you forget.
You're forgotten.
You regret,
Rock bottom.
You're fading,
Fading…
What an awesome album. Amazing composition and performance. You might not expected a jazz trio to sound like this, but it works, brilliantly. Patrick Haesler