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Apple Cobbler Ft. Timbaland

[LL Cool J]
Uhh.. uhh.. uhh.. uh-huh
Uhh.. uhh.. that joint is hot baby!
[Verse One]
Lights, camera, action - hold up
You know my style, I been blowed up
Paper was young, now it's growed up
Stacks so thick it's hard to fold up
Yo B, find another rubberband in the truck
Count up the money, I'ma stand in the cut
Stroll in the party and I toast Cris' up
Tell that a muh-hucca gets this up
Shake that cookie like what like what
Toss me a drop it's like lightning struck
Look at that apple cobbler butt
Whatchu wanna do, whatchu think? Want cut
NBA Live in my truck
Parkin lot like all jammed up
If there's beef it's best you duck
I'm gon' eat 'til I'm filled up

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song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sad Girl

I seen her at a stoplight on Alverano
Was sittin in a pearl white Eldorado
In a gangsta lean she was revvin' the throttle
Got a sticker on the bumper say she like techano
She looked like Selena
The truth couldn't be plainer
She like a gangster boogie
Her mommy calls her cookie
My friends call her a sad girl
'coz her man went away
and he ain't never comin' back
So cry a another tattoo sea
Sad girl livin' on the east side of the city
Proud woman boy, she don't want none of your pity
Sad girl got no one to rely on
Proud woman don't need your shoulder to cry on
I seen her at the market she was pushin' a stroller
Smokin' on a cigarette, drinkin' a soda
Laughin' at a joke that somebody just told her
Got her baby's name tattooed on the back of her shoulder

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song performed by Everlast
Added by Lucian Velea
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Turning Into Something Wild

Key:-
A - anita
R - ray
A: tuning into something wild
A: like a comet from space
Like a slap in the face
You can feel it coming
Like a push in the back
Turning white into black
Youre feeling something wild now!
A: youre feeling something wild now!
R: hey precious, hey burning child
Time to tune to something wild
Its new, its hot, its all youre not
Dont turn back, its all weve got
Youre breathless, youre out of step
Time to learn just what is hip
If you think youre in a jumble
Thats the way the cookie crumbles
A: tuning into something wild

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song performed by 2 Unlimited
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tuning Into Something Wild

Key:-
"a" - anita
"r" - ray
A: tuning into something wild
A: like a comet from space
Like a slap in the face
You can feel it coming
Like a push in the back
Turning white into black
You're feeling something wild now!
A: you're feeling something wild now!
R: hey precious, hey burning child
Time to tune to something wild
It's new, it's hot, it's all you're not
Don't turn back, it's all we've got
You're breathless, you're out of step
Time to learn just what is hip
If you think you're in a jumble
That's the way the cookie crumbles
A: tuning into something wild

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song performed by 2 Unlimited
Added by Lucian Velea
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Apple Cobbler

Track: Apple Cobbler
Artist: LL Cool J
Guest Artists:
Album: The DEFinition
------------------------------------------------------
Lyrics:
INTRO
Uh
Uh
Uh
Uh huh
Uh
Uh
That joint is hot baby
VERSE 1
Lights, Camera, Action hold up
You know my style I been blowed up
Paper was young now it is growed up
Stack so big its hard to fold up
Yo D find another rubber band in the truck

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song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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Blinded By The Light

Madman drummers bummers and indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat
With a boulder on my shoulder feelin kinda older I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing the calliope crashed to the ground
Some all-hot half-shot was headin for the hot spot snappin his fingers clappin his hands
And some fleshpot mascot was tied into a lovers knot with a whatnot in her hand
And now young scott with a slingshot finally found a tender spot and throws his lover in the sand
And some bloodshot forget-menot whispers daddys within earshot save the buckshot turn up the band
And she was blinded by the light. cut loose like a deuce
Another runner in the night. blinded by the light
She got down but she never got tight, but shell make it alright
Some brimstone baritone anticyclone rolling stone preacher from the east
He says: dethrone the dictaphone, hit it in its funny bone, thats where they expect it least
And some new-mown chaperone was standin in the corner all alone watchin the young girls dance
And some fresh-sown moonstone was messin with his frozen zone to remind him of the feeling of romance
Yeah he was blinded by the light. cut loose like a deuce
Another runner in the night. blinded by the light
He got down but she never got tight, but hes gonna make it tonight
Some silicone sister with her managers mister told me I got what it takes
She said Ill turn you on sonny to something strong if you play that song with the funky break

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song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Around The Way Girl

(you got me shook up shook down shook out on your loving)
(on your loving)
I want a girl with extensions in her hair
Bamboo earrings
At least two pair
A fendi bag and a bad attitude
Thats all I need to get me in a good mood
She can walk with a switch and talk with street slang
I love it when a woman is scared to do her thing
Standing at the bus stop sucking on a lollipop
Once she gets pumping its hard to make the hottie stop
She likes to dance to the rap jam
She sweet as brown sugar with the candied yams
Honey coated complexion
Using camay
Lets hear it for the girl shes from around the way
Chorus
I need an around the way girl
Around the way girl
Thats the one for me

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song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pink Cookies In A Plastic Bag

The act of makin love...is...
[refrain]
Pink cookies in a plastic bag, gettin crushed by buildings
Pink cookies in a plastic bag, gettin crushed by buildings
Ill take 30 electric chairs
And putem in a classroom
30 mcs
And setem free from thier doom.
Just like a tomahawk cuts through the wind
When we begin
The wheel of furtune it spins
Holdin
The rhythm like elastic
Moldin
Your whole body like plastic
So why try to deny what ya already know ya love
Up above
Cause the mania
Hysteria
In the streets

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song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dreams of Jhana

Thoughts travel
riding the ripples.
Pluvial pattering
innumerable
driblets fuse into
vast cyan-blue body.
Solemn reverie,
reflections by the water.
Coincidental myths?
Matter's solid illusion?
Propaganda spread
over Linear Time?
natural hidden treasures
lost in a darkened sub-region
of a mountain top Mind?

Pining amongst
heathers and lindens.
Nasal donations.
Sweet nosegays

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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
Added by Poetry Lover
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One Star In The Dirty Window

for the occupiers of Wall Street

One star in the window and that’s enough to see me through the darkness for another night. Trying to weave a flying carpet out of a snakepit. Toxic wavelengths of mind. Poison arrowheads that make it worse to be wounded than killed outright. And all over Perth tonight I imagine there are bruised hearts like mine and yours turning cyanotically blue from having drunk from the same tainted wellsprings of life like fish that have no choice. The apples of October have been laced with the razorblades of Halloween by the psychopathic tree that hands them out like treats to the children in the doorway of an upright coffin. And the leaves are burning up in a fever of arsenic. Spiders work the loom like the strings of the system that hooks us by our gills in its seine nets until the great wild seas of our awareness and the dangerous freedom to look for new ungovernable continents within us so we can flee the corporate corruption of this one is reduced to the neurotic dimensions of a fish farm. If you are poor. If you’re worried about how to pay the rent this month. If it’s winter and there are harpies and sprites and ghouls threatening to turn the gas, the lights, the elements of life off like trolls under the bridge your money built to bilk you until it collapses from lack of repair. If you don’t how you’re going to manage to buy your kid a birthday present this year and you’re even more afraid of Christmas. If you’re poor and your prospects are as bleak as this deserted street tonight now all the ladys-in-waiting, princes, jesters, and warring kings have called it a night and emptied their street court like a bar. If you’re chronically tortured by the rags of dignity with the blood of a lost cause upon them like something that cost your mother and father their lives to fight for. And you’re ashamed of the straitjacket you’ve been forced to wear in order to have some overseer raise a spoon to your lips three exact times of the day like banking hours and GST cheques. If you smoulder with rage like a underground cedar fire burning in your roots like fuses of lightning afraid to explode. If you’re poor. If the weight of the world is on your back heavier than any cross the spiritual spin doctors of the complicit church and their political henchmen encourage you to carry like a virtue all the way to a fabricated heaven on the installment plan, but you can’t bear the load as a volunteer stretcher-bearer anymore, carrying your own corpse to the grave, while they rave in the wealth of what they have deprived you of here and now. If you’re poor. If you feel like a subliminal archetype of guilt in the collective unconscious of a society of quisling theosophists and weight-concscious c.e.o.’s sitting down to salads of money they eat out of the skulls of the children they’ve starved to death. If you don’t make enough money in Oregon to appeal to hypocritic oaths that sit on decisive committees to see if your son is worthy of a kidney transplant. An education. Piano lessons. A future that isn’t always an echo worse than the voices we heard yesterday protesting to the vampires that without a free blood bank they didn’t stand a chance of surviving the contributions they’re expected to make at night. If you’re poor in a chilly apartment in Perth tonight and you’re being eaten alive by the eggs that have been laid on your forehead like the living host to sustain the young of the killer bees that have sewn their nettles in the honey of life like the military-industrial complex of the hive. If you’re poor and you don’t get one year’s free subscription to satellite radio on the bus you have to take to work every morning surrounded by ads for the latest Ford-150 pick up truck ready to do a man’s work at the dropp of a hard hat and then go hunting in the country, and the new black paint is trying to imitate the skin of a naked woman, because your sex life depends on what you drive, and the sumptuary laws of the lies you’re allowed to wear like a Roman triumph are too stringent to get the dirt out of the dowdy greens and browns of your serfdom long enough to get laid by the calendar girls who sit like mermaids on a brand new truck, but have never sung to you. If you’re the poor wretch sitting in the doorway of the Bank of Nova Scotia across Foster Street in the small hours of the morning like a bird that gets to pick the parasites off the back of the hippopotamus that keeps rolling over on you in your sleep. For a fee. To hold up your end of a symbiotic relationship whereby you’re expected to eat shit and call it your daily bread. Eat humiliation, a ration of rat meat, and call it a just portion. Eat your education like bitter food for thought when you see how the fascistic ignorance of antediluvian fat men and their gold-digging wives are dignified by the juke-box of the news as if the point of view of a maggot on how to turn base metal into a gold butterfly it will never become were worthy of the same air time they give to eagles. One hundred news outlets with the same six slug lines like the top hits of the day. Catastrophe du jour. With rescued puppy stories for the trimmings. Eat information like the news. It’s Chinese food of the mind. Not very filling. With a fortune-cookie and a fat tape worm of better things to come wrapped around your bowels like the noose of a downed powerline that spared the cost of the rope to lynch you by your large intestine. If you’re poor and you’re always the falling leaf and never the apple. If you’re poor and it’s always autumn to judge by the banks of junkmail and bills that are swept up on your doorsill at all times of the year. If you’re poor and you’re punished for being out on the streets after curfew for having dropped through the cracks of your caste by a neocon leper colony privatized by the messianic lobbyists of free enterprise with one finger on the scales of equal opportunity because there isn’t a feather’s worth of good in them when they go before the jackal god of death and their grubby hearts are found wanting. If you’re poor and you’re listening to the North Carolina state legislature discussing your extermination in the civic minded tones of the Pied Piper of Hamlin and you’re eating your self-respect like the plague rat of why the rich suffer. Because in their creationist myth your womb is the enemy of the state. And you the infectious carrier of the pestilence. If you’re poor and sitting by the window on a warped floor behind the heritage field stones of an upstairs ghetto apartment in Perth feeling like the second coming of the Irish potato famine with no where to emigrate this time to be third in line below the Scotch and English on the food chain. If you’re poor. Tattoo this on your forehead like an Egyptian destiny you and your eyes will live to see fulfilled. It’s not your fault. Even if you’ve given up. Even if you’re gaping like zero, like absolute nothing, between two hissing sibilants of a serpentine medical symbol unravelling. And the dragon’s lost its wings. And the physician doesn’t care enough to heal himself because he’s lost his faith in oaths. Or dangerous hope has given way to futile despair and they’re both siblings of the absurd. It’s not your fault that you were born into a society where even the mirages in this desert of stars are bundled and sold like real estate. That illusions and diseases apply for patents of ownership. That even the constellations have become the work of surveyors not shepherds on a hillside and the poor are being foreclosed and evicted from the signs of the zodiac because they can’t pay the rent or the mortgage on the house they were born into. Or the hydro on the stars. Even if your spinal cord tinkles like the burnt out filament of a dead lightbulb and the shining’s gone out. It’s not your fault if the universe that was airlifted to you at birth as your portion of life with nothing missing was intercepted and sold at prices that eat their own on the black market of free enterprise for the poor, or they couldn’t afford it, and socialism for the rich because they couldn’t survive without you. You might be like the sea in the lowest place of all but all things flow like rivers down into you. And the depth of the valley of shadows and death you’re walking through alone is a function of the height of the mountain that digs it like a grave it will be buried in. When all the grains of sand like stars come together they make a sea of waves where life thrives in the here and now spontaneously not a pyramid for the sake of a single capstone whose happy afterlife is founded on quicksand.
Saw a huge spiderweb once under a streetlamp at Carleton University thirty-six years ago. Six spiders, their abdomens obese as lightbulbs, six tumours ripening on the panicked cells and neural networks of more frenzied insects drawn to the light out of the dark than their webs were meant to accommodate. The webs were ripping under the weight of the horrified fruits of their gluttony stuck in the powerlines like kites and running shoes and treacherous parachutes. The dew spangled veils of the morning were being torn off like consumerist dream catchers to entice the mob to the artificial radiance of the light that drove them crazy. But the spiders were too satiate to move. And they were being pulled down along with their prey under the massive superflux of their immensely successful catastrophe. Pleonaxia. The disease of more and more and more. And all the insects had to do because the conglomerate spiders were too immobilized by the obscenity of their gigantism to stick an ice-pick in the back of Trotsky’s neck in Cuba was to keep a cool enough head to extricate themselves puppet string by puppet string, spinal cord by spinal cord, straitjacket by straitjacket, wing by wing from the web. But most were paralyzed by their own fear waiting for the fatal moment of the ruinous agenda to come like a budget cutting knife to end their nightmare. And after all these years that terrible insight still provides me with blood-freezing metaphors into the present economic system that preys upon the poor by beading the foodchain with black thoraxes as if they were the ninety-nine names of God and it were a rosary we could all say our novinas on pleading for more lifeboats and happier lifelines than the rigging of this ship of state that’s going down with all of us aboard as the captains of industry jump like rats in Genoa back into the year 1348 when there were corpses galore to feed on.
If you’re poor. Come to the revolution but leave your guillotine at home. Come to the revolution but leave Lenin in Geneva. Come to the revolution like Wat Tyler but don’t believe the promises of the king. Come to the revolution like Spartacus but don’t put your faith in pirates to provide you with the means of escape. Come to the revolution like Toussaint L’Ouverture in Haiti but first drive the fer de lance out of your sugar-cane so that no innocent bystanders get bit as an off-handed matter of population control. Come to the revolution like Aung San Suu Kyi ready to sit down in the teahouses of Burma to pry the fingers of the junta off the throats of the people like the petals of a flower whose time has come to let go. Come to the revolution like Ghandi walking all the way to the sea to turn the pillars of British imperialism to salt without all the fire and brimstone of Sodom and Gomorrah. Come like him to the revolution as a leader who knew how to follow his people. Come to the revolution like Helen Keller who stood up to the Rupert Murdochs of the age who were more in need of signage than she was on behalf of the rights of the working people and declared Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle! What an ungallant bird it is! Socially blind and deaf, it defends a system that’s intolerable. The Eagle and I are at war. Come to the revolution like Nelson Mandela to an international rugby match in the uniform of a Springbok scrum half to show that over-rated hatred can’t make a comeback over the jubilation of people in play with one another in time enough to win. Come to the revolution like Victor Jara and the Chilean art brigades and bring that guitar and that voice he left us that you’ve been wanting to play for decades with a compassionate feel for the sorrows of others right down to the tips of your social democratic fingerprints as if you weren’t born too late to celebrate a lost cause with a Cinderella story right out the social pages of the mid-sixties into the front page slug lines of msnbc news today. And remember it’s better to sing sincerely than well when you’ve got Bob Dylan for a voice coach. Come to the revolution like Tuwakal Karman of Yemen like the first coffee flower of the Arab Spring to raise her voice against Ali Abdullah Saleh in the name of human rights and freedom of expression. Come to the revolution like Martin Luther to the church door in Wittenburg and post your thirty-three articles of protest but don’t think because you throw inkwells at the devil that’s the same as writing your name in blood on the marble of Wall Street or a war memorial for the dead of Vietnam. Come like George Washington to the American Revolution ready to lay your power down as a sign of complete victory over what satisfies the industrial complexity of the generals’ hearts. Come like Barack Obama to the wellsprings of a cleaner watershed than that which flowed like the corrupt ditches of the tainted bloodstreams of Eden like the four rivers of the running sores of the trickle down economics of the political food chain that ran before him for office by putting a carrot in front of a donkey and all your eggs in one basket in front of a rampaging elephant. Come to the revolution like Emmeline Pankhurst to a hunger strike in a game of cat and mouse with the government who’ll catch you and let you go to fatten you up and keep you from being force fed before they arrest you again for throwing your weight around like Emily Davison at the king’s horse in the name of wanting to run like a candidate at the same race track without the handicap of not being able to vote. Come to the revolution like Dolores Jiminez y Muro with a political plan to give Emiliano Zapata a Mexican classroom of political reform worth dying for. If you’re poor, as Kurt Cobain said, come as you are. And if Jesus doesn’t want you for a sunbeam then come as a cloud. Come as a mountain. Come as a full eclipse of the moon or a loveletter that someone sent back or come as seven come eleven and trust in your luck when the dice are not loaded like skulls with no eyes against you.

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
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