-
The grand old painter died last night. His paintings on the wall. Before he went, he bade us well. And said goodnight to us all Drink to me, drink to my health. You know I can't drink any more
-
the breeze. Leaving only bells of lightning and it's thunder. Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind. Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind. An' the poet an the painter far
-
corner, take over Walkman's. Like G money and that Wrangler. Showin' this new drug that I had, niggas it's danger. Spittin' Basquiat, I'm a painter. Every hard verse, great off work, you can hang up
-
the breeze. Leaving only bells of lightning and it's thunder. Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind. Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind. An' the poet an the painter far
-
fuse, boom. Painter, baby, you could be the muse. I'm the reporter, baby, you could be the news. 'Cause you're the cigarette and I'm the smoker. We raise a bet 'cause you're the joker. Checked off, you
-
am just a picture frame. I am not the painter. Where do I begin? Can I shed this skin?. What is this I feel within?. It's only love, it's only pain. It's only fear that runs through my veins. It's all
-
on the steel breeze. Come on you raver, you seer of visions. Come on you painter. You piper, you prisoner and shine
-
painter, Hitler's son. And a commie with a tommy gun Soily, soily. The cat in satin trousers said it's oily. Soily, soily. The cat in satin trousers said it's oily. Oh yeah, yeah, yeah Soily, soily
-
treated sick. And ineffective which is the worst thing. That she'd been left with. Damn, no magic from David Blane. No painter to pain this pain. No Morgan Freeman to narrate the shame. So she took
-
from coincidence. The empty-handed painter from your streets. Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets. This sky, too, is folding under you. And it's all over now, Baby Blue. All your seasick sailors
-
like holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet. Oh I could drink a case of you, darling. And I would still be on my feet. Oh I would still be on my feet Oh I am a lonely painter. I live in a box
-
from paris thinking things could be arranged. Me and you would rendezvous but I found your number changed. So I drove to san remo where the crazy painter dwells. Toasted our old photograph still up
-
brainer, I'm coming with both flamers. Spray 'em, but I'm no painter to this here, I'm no stranger It's obvious, you no bangers, you dudes pose no danger. Your whole crew chumps, in the closet like coat
-
. You could bet that. Never gotta sweat that. You could bet that. Never gotta sweat that If you be the cash,. I'll be the rubber band. You be the match,. I will be a fuse, boom. Painter baby, you
-
painter behind beyond his rightful time. An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales. For the disrobed faceless forms of no position