PHIL LYNOTT WAS A POET
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The wide, the woven, the smell of fear
Easier to hide than make a stand
Form a band, cover yourself in glory
Write your own story, nights of fury
Intelligence is weary, culture vulture
Under the lights of night your face black
Your heritage an echo, a Gaelic refrain
Up on the stage of fame, spike the stain
Carry me home, wander free, a family
Stand out under the stars naked, your
electric harp, with the boys of harmony
Bringing it home, not when your alone
Pass the skit, the rush, the hit, atonement
Write it down in your mothers scrapbook
Looking for the mass ascension, Johnny boy
Collecting friends along the way, adjacent
Musha ring dum a do, whack for my daddy-o
The jar is left, shake the tree, where did daddy go?
Fender Jazz, Precision, give it to sad clowns of derision
Learned to star, scar the stage, no boot stud indecision
Fame train carries a barb, a wye switch derailer
Home mommy’s kid, not greedie tin’ bitch syringe
Leather clad, punk sad, ride the ferris wheel ..
Get off the track, gentle guitar man, Lynott you are a poet