Plastic Pattern People Lyrics

Song	Plastic Pattern People
Artist	Gil Scott-Heron
Album	Small Talk at 125th and Lenox
Download	Image LRC TXT

	作词 : Scott-Heron
	Glad to get high and see the slow motion world.
	Just to reach, and touch, the half notes floating.
	Worlds spinning orbit quicker than 9/8ths
	Dave Brubeck
	.
	We come now, frantically searching for Thomas Moore, rainbow villages.
	Up on suddenly,
	Charlie Mingus
	and our man
	Abdul Malik
	,
	to add bass, to a bottomless pit of insecurity.
	You may be plastic because you never meditate,
	about the bottom of glasses, The third side of your universe.
	Add on
	Alice Coltrane
	and her cosmic strains.
	Still no vocal on blue black horizons.
	Your plasticity is tested by a formless assault.
	The sun can answer questions in tune, to all your sacrifices.
	But why would our new jazz age give us no more mind expanding puzzles?
	Enter
	John
	.
	Blow from under, always, and never, so that the morning, the sun,
	may scream of brain bending saxophones.
	The third world arrives, with
	Yusef Lateef
	, and
	Pharaoh Saunders
	.
	With oboes straining to touch the core of your unknown soul.
	Ravi Shankar
	comes, with strings attached, prepared to stabilize your seventh sense,
	Your black rhythm.
	Up and down a silly ladder run the notes, without the words.
	Words are important for the mind, but the notes are for the soul.
	Miles Davis
	, So what?
	Cannonball
	,
	Fiddler
	, Mercy.
	Dexter Gordon
	, One Flight Up.
	Donald Byrd
	, playing Cristo, but what about words?
	Would you like to survive on sadness? Call on
	Ella
	and Jose Happiness.
	Drift with
	Smokey
	, Bill Medley,
	Bobby Taylor
	, and
	Otis Redding
	.
	Soul music where frustrations are washed by drums,
	Nina
	and
	Miriam
	.
	Congo, Mongo, Beat me, senseless, bongo, Tonto.
	Flash through dream worlds of STP and LSD.
	Speed kills and sometimes musics call, is frustrated.
	And the black man is confused.
	Our speed is our life pace, much too fast, not good.
	I beg you to escape, and live, and hear all of the real.
	Until a call comes for you to cry elsewhere.
	We must all cry, but tell me.
	Must our tears be white?

	zuo ci : ScottHeron
	Glad to get high and see the slow motion world.
	Just to reach, and touch, the half notes floating.
	Worlds spinning orbit quicker than 9 8ths
	Dave Brubeck
	.
	We come now, frantically searching for Thomas Moore, rainbow villages.
	Up on suddenly,
	Charlie Mingus
	and our man
	Abdul Malik
	,
	to add bass, to a bottomless pit of insecurity.
	You may be plastic because you never meditate,
	about the bottom of glasses, The third side of your universe.
	Add on
	Alice Coltrane
	and her cosmic strains.
	Still no vocal on blue black horizons.
	Your plasticity is tested by a formless assault.
	The sun can answer questions in tune, to all your sacrifices.
	But why would our new jazz age give us no more mind expanding puzzles?
	Enter
	John
	.
	Blow from under, always, and never, so that the morning, the sun,
	may scream of brain bending saxophones.
	The third world arrives, with
	Yusef Lateef
	, and
	Pharaoh Saunders
	.
	With oboes straining to touch the core of your unknown soul.
	Ravi Shankar
	comes, with strings attached, prepared to stabilize your seventh sense,
	Your black rhythm.
	Up and down a silly ladder run the notes, without the words.
	Words are important for the mind, but the notes are for the soul.
	Miles Davis
	, So what?
	Cannonball
	,
	Fiddler
	, Mercy.
	Dexter Gordon
	, One Flight Up.
	Donald Byrd
	, playing Cristo, but what about words?
	Would you like to survive on sadness? Call on
	Ella
	and Jose Happiness.
	Drift with
	Smokey
	, Bill Medley,
	Bobby Taylor
	, and
	Otis Redding
	.
	Soul music where frustrations are washed by drums,
	Nina
	and
	Miriam
	.
	Congo, Mongo, Beat me, senseless, bongo, Tonto.
	Flash through dream worlds of STP and LSD.
	Speed kills and sometimes musics call, is frustrated.
	And the black man is confused.
	Our speed is our life pace, much too fast, not good.
	I beg you to escape, and live, and hear all of the real.
	Until a call comes for you to cry elsewhere.
	We must all cry, but tell me.
	Must our tears be white?

	zuò cí : ScottHeron
	Glad to get high and see the slow motion world.
	Just to reach, and touch, the half notes floating.
	Worlds spinning orbit quicker than 9 8ths
	Dave Brubeck
	.
	We come now, frantically searching for Thomas Moore, rainbow villages.
	Up on suddenly,
	Charlie Mingus
	and our man
	Abdul Malik
	,
	to add bass, to a bottomless pit of insecurity.
	You may be plastic because you never meditate,
	about the bottom of glasses, The third side of your universe.
	Add on
	Alice Coltrane
	and her cosmic strains.
	Still no vocal on blue black horizons.
	Your plasticity is tested by a formless assault.
	The sun can answer questions in tune, to all your sacrifices.
	But why would our new jazz age give us no more mind expanding puzzles?
	Enter
	John
	.
	Blow from under, always, and never, so that the morning, the sun,
	may scream of brain bending saxophones.
	The third world arrives, with
	Yusef Lateef
	, and
	Pharaoh Saunders
	.
	With oboes straining to touch the core of your unknown soul.
	Ravi Shankar
	comes, with strings attached, prepared to stabilize your seventh sense,
	Your black rhythm.
	Up and down a silly ladder run the notes, without the words.
	Words are important for the mind, but the notes are for the soul.
	Miles Davis
	, So what?
	Cannonball
	,
	Fiddler
	, Mercy.
	Dexter Gordon
	, One Flight Up.
	Donald Byrd
	, playing Cristo, but what about words?
	Would you like to survive on sadness? Call on
	Ella
	and Jose Happiness.
	Drift with
	Smokey
	, Bill Medley,
	Bobby Taylor
	, and
	Otis Redding
	.
	Soul music where frustrations are washed by drums,
	Nina
	and
	Miriam
	.
	Congo, Mongo, Beat me, senseless, bongo, Tonto.
	Flash through dream worlds of STP and LSD.
	Speed kills and sometimes musics call, is frustrated.
	And the black man is confused.
	Our speed is our life pace, much too fast, not good.
	I beg you to escape, and live, and hear all of the real.
	Until a call comes for you to cry elsewhere.
	We must all cry, but tell me.
	Must our tears be white?

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