Untitled so far...

It started with a rhythm

With a search to find something good.

With a rusty trumpet

Found in a bad neighborhood.

From a singer,

Whose voice was never heard

Unless you heard her screaming-

A little caged bird.

But they broke out of their cages

Before the death bell could toll.

Struggles.

That's what gave them their soul.

Some said "Stop" - They said "No!"

Some said "No!" - They heard "Go!"

They wouldn't slow -

Artists have a need to show what they know.

But now what?

Is all we know drinking and bars?

And sex and drugs and partying

And souped up cars?

Is all that auto-tuning and cussing

Really what we feel?

It seems we gotta look to the past

To find out what is real.

Sure we sample and remix

And all that stuff is good.

But we don't give back

As much originality as we should.

We owe it to the caged birds

To make the best of what we got.

If it weren't for those pioneers,

We wouldn't even have a shot.

They lit the fire,

Now it's time to pass the torch

And remember that rusty trumpet

On that dirty front porch.