Canterbury Drafts

I keep hearing voices calling me onward
a few paces ahead on the path that I've often wandered
born earth child I hear first the call of the wild
you'll find me sleeping on the hills when the weather gets mild
styled a zealman in more ways than one
organic process starts, illumination's begun
congregations come gather so the crew shines on
it's long overdue so let me get my white whine on
rhyme on time all the time: I never stop
if the lines don't align then the structures gonna drop
so the foreman's on site from foundation to the rafter
protractor in hand master plan canterbury drafter
I remember a time when all four walls were oaken
wise spoken a fine morning finally broken
awoken - the spirit of old
lyrics we mould pure endurance in the cold
smouldering embers spark smoke in the winter
scraping up splinters blowing hard on the cinders
in the South step out of the house days dawn
refining my fingerprints since the day I was born
'cause warnings never lessen when you listen to lessons:learn!
to live every day above and leave alone the concern
but turn unchill I climb uphill to capture spillage
from this vantage point I could map out the whole village
for the canterbury craftsman drafting a rhymeplan:
Zeal Land: Do whatever you feel man:
Dredging deadwood from the depths of a mire
if the dialogue's so tired why are you clogging the fire
crap pseudonyms are hymns to the death of what's admired
you can watch us placing limbs on the funeral pyre
I heard some voices which led me from my old stomping ground
gave me some choices; the first one was to stay around
and stagnate and rot in a sea of non-creation
those big headed headz are far too small for complication
the second: board a ship and sail abroad to start afresh
but I have to accomplish the hardest part before I depart I guess
so I chose the third: saddle up; ride out or bust
far behind I left collisions within my cloud of dust
Something I've been fighting with for years tears out what's inside of me
why can't you see ? the rot's in your society
what blots your sight? A blighted copy's what you try to be
whilst spreading nothing more than mere mutterings of war
hip hop's an artform you do nothing for
it's your own situation of lack and loss you frown for
I'm standing outdoors getting drenched by the downpour:
you're welcome not to feel us; this stuff's the REAL US
in fact: you not listening to us would be a real plus
It's time to log on: This is darktowerrepublic dotcom
it's just him and me we don't pretend to be from where we're not from...
It's just us from beginning to end
we're not in this to fit in or win friends
I've been scoring up plans
drafts written in cold air
and drawing a land
stripping the soul bare
I scrawl my plans with a pen from all lands to the end
found my path descending then I began the mending
I sought half the truth in the sand and the glen
then found it all depends on whether you trans-to the-scend
I've been scoring up plans
drafts written in cold air
and drawing a land
stripping the soul bare
DT to CD to BDC
Some say the past is the past /so let it pass
some say the past; it forms your future /that's how long it lasts
some say the path is the way you should follow/and follow fast
I say the path is made as you walk: Canterbury Drafts!

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