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Myth Unto Caesars Break Prescient Lies Blues
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Stock standard hobo blues with intro. Thankyou for listening. This is 13 04 13 around 4. p.m., part of a larger session. Apparently I'm fighting a large tradition and myth about me.
artist blues guitar london graphic designer animator illustrator robert phillips robertemerald tichphillips woolich xbusker
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Blues. Used to busk. Thankyou for looking March 2021. Love/art/blues/Rob. So, musical diary
Pardon? How can I interview me? Some streets are better than others? Some highways are brighter than others. Time of day, find a state of mind, imagination, TV, 1920s. I write about love, lost or found, hopefully honestly inspired by love, and try to play better for that. When younger protested about behaviours on my radar, and of course, being a simple artist, surfing the great times I imagine I had in another life, or maybe one day this one!
Song Info
Genre
Blues • Acoustic Blues
Charts
Peak #229
Peak in subgenre #24
Author
Robert Ellery Phillips
Rights
Robert Ellery Phillips (robertemerald)
Uploaded
April 14, 2013
Track Files
MP3
MP3 7.4 MB • 160 kbps • 6:26
Story behind the song
Stock standard hobo blues with intro. Thankyou for listening. This is 13 04 13 around 4. p.m., part of a larger session. Apparently I'm fighting a large tradition and myth about me. The Robot Is Dead Meat by 2978 AD Off the top of the robot's head ..... Let me guess. The cool cats out the back of pothead days are trying to round about blame me for past and present, history, anything, including wild suspicions, with an aggrieved bigoted opinion that as I moved up in the world so should they. A sort of takes one theory of everything, with their deliberate parallel being the proof, and claiming to be police officers if they can get me within earshot so long as I remain strangers to them. A sort of West Australian James Bond. All that, black mud, without ever having actually met me. L:et me guess, they are great guys not cowards playing God and dumping on my existence 24/7. And it's a tradition. They admit it, with a disapproving sad sack sneer. Everything is my fault, at the very least everyone' else's fault for misinforming them or letting them off the leash. Punt. Their corrupt piggie Daddy is assuring all it is not a vendetta because, at some point in the brave past, I had the temerity to tell him to go shove it. Likely Mister Spiritual Brother will claim my higher self couldn't possibly have been that stupid or bold. Think again. Fantasy. Lives a paradise lie I'm a crimminal. Has for ten years. Continuously. Some howling banshee club claiming all sorts of things and proud that they are being cowards and bastards about it. Using knowing my moves as a prescient proof, ignoring the diabolical threats and the fact they can't talk normally. Their on the half hour loud and clear thankyous are a diabolical it is all the Phillips's fault. And yet there will be an implication that I gave them a want to be caught spiritual thankyou. A crock. Caught for what? Clean ten years. Out the back of local happening cool for years without introducing themselves using the fact, as a fictitious proof in itself, they know policemen to intimidate and never face. To slander heads off with impunity, as if that wasn't against the law. As if they have no experience at all with being guilty themselves. Or is that just the bake? That they can fool people? Fool people I might buy that they are not evil bastards but the good guys? That they bother? They bother, in the sense they get away with it. And people let them. Any chance of men only, or is the call me gay and mad too ingrained for that? And that makes sense? Psychopaths addicted to winning at all costs and thinking that is what life is, a series of wins over poor schmucks whom they know beforehand, ten years beforehand, can't possibly fight them back. Into the cutting edge, but only as a sideline, 24/7. Kings of sausages, sorry to be filthy but its true, words just slip off their tongues, like machine gun typewriters. And it feels good. Time. That is obvious. I still have not a clue who they are. A luminous killer stink. No question cruel and they will under no circumstances brave a public face, such as mine. A weird House episode was my defense this morning. Ran roughshod over it. They have nothing to say. Ride a lie hard to make it sound true. All day and all night, in relays. Utterly illiterate and unoriginal expecting empowerment from peers so as to not be guilty themselves of anything while insisting everything I am is guilt. A crock. No conscience anywhere, and pointless, I am never going to talk to them. Obviously words are meaningless to them, mere weapons, I can fire any insult at them. Massive cowardice. Lied heads off for cowardice and to ride me as spiritual bigwigs not wishing to face that they have hated me all their lives and proud of that too. Waiting all day for points of fame as if I'm the only pop-star on Earth. Suck holes anywhere you look, like babies whining for love, expecting to be told good girls an
Lyrics
Stock standard hobo blues with intro. Thankyou for listening. This is 13 04 13 around 4. p.m., part of a larger session. Apparently I'm fighting a large tradition and myth about me. Spontaneous. There were instrumentals I haven't published as well, and another tune on this theme that I deemed too sarcastic in present form.
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