God, hes left as on aur oun.
They say, everything could be replaced.
Nina Simone is dead, alas.
Alabama’s got me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
And everybody knows about Mississippi goddam!
I think this awkward, broken translation of Pravda’s obituary says it best, in a 7.30-in-the-morning first-cup-of-coffee sort of way:
Why are cigars lit at a match? They are lit with a strong and natural flame of a match which unwillingly slips from under professional hands; the flame sputters, resists, envelops rolled tobacco leaves; it gives the leaves the passion and the flame. The head of a match falls off in a second. It is only in hands of a professional that a match lights straight away.
Mostly because she isn’t here to say it herself anymore.
Lord have mercy on this land of mine
We all gonna get it in due time
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong there
I’ve even stopped believing in prayer
Don’t tell me
I tell you
Me and my people just about due
I’ve been there so I know
They keep on saying “Go slow!”
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