Tag: song lyrics

bookmark_borderOutta Hand

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I thought I could depend,
On Greenland,
I don’t understand,
How’d things get so outta hand?

Mountain glacier,
Washes ashore,
West Antarctica,
Coming right at ya,
Willing to sacrifice,
Greenland’s ice,
East Antarctica?!?!?!?!
Daaaaa…
Heart attack —
Ahhhhh!

With the rising tide,
There’s no place to hide,
A brackish backlash,
Can’t take it in stride,
The divide… toooo wide.

As Tasmanian’s cancer,
Is Nightmare’s romancer,
A Frankenfish,
Scales the wall,
Escaping from,
Man’s great fall,
Yeah, we’re hot,
As our heatwave,
Sends em to their grave,
Yeah, we forgot,
What we’re not:

We’re not so good,
To know what we should,
We’re not too good,
To do what we could.

If we think of the good…
We would.

With the rising tides,
Our ride collides,
A brackish backlash,
Gotta blame it on pride,
And, my selfish inside.

Kingdom come,
Has come undone,
How dumb?
How dumb.

NOTES
John (of Bakersfield, CA) asked:
Is there a consensus on the maximum sea level rise if all the ice upon land melts ? I have heard from 175ft. to 415 ft. Anybody done an accurate study on this ? Thanks

Sidd replied:
various contributions from ice
a)mountain glaciers: 10 cm — 7 in
b)West Antarctica:500 cm — 15 ft
c)Greenland:500 cm – 15 ft
d)East Antarctica: 7000 cm — 210 ft

also other contributions from thermal expansion of the warming oceans (20 cm/degree/Km) etc…. looks like greenland is goin fast

bookmark_borderThe Blind Eye I

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It’s getting hard to believe,
That we won’t relieve,
I mean… I’m in disbelief,
That we won’t offer relief.

We can’t claim we’re unaware,
Undoubtedly unfair,
It’s evident,
We don’t care,
Though permanent,
It’s dismissed,
Now, we’ve misssssssed,
The boat,
Our ship came in,
But, left again.
Our chance?
Remote.

A severe circumstance,
Makes my journey,
Difficult,
A fear juggernaut,
That’s our own fault,
Gotta change our stance.

Why can’t I see?
Have I…
Grown blind,
Am I that kind?

An insight,
To help us see —
Difficult!
And, it’s our own fault.

That’s right,
You can blame me,
Or, have we all turned…
A blind eye?

Haven’t we learned?

bookmark_borderDon’t Fade Away

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Will it take decades to fade,
Is there enough time in a century,
To rewrite all of history?

Will it even take a decade to fade?
Please forgive my curiosity,
Sometimes it gets the best of me.

The intuition of the Inuit,
Well… they seem to have it,
Global warming gasers,
Are worse than terrorists,
Slowly killing the masses,
Because self-fulfillment,
We can’t resist,
Bringing on pain through disasters,
Bringing it on faster and faster,
All hopes being dashed,
As time passes,
All hopes… smashed,
Do you think it’s meant?

No! Don’t fade away,
Hey, hey, hey,
Don’t fade away,
Hey!
Let’s move away,
Hey, hey, hey,
From trouble stray,
Hey!
Live another day,
Hey, hey, hey,
Don’t fade away.
(repeat and fade)

bookmark_borderHow About Myself?

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You don’t stink much,
How ’bout me?
We don’t think much —
Unfortunately.

How about myself?
How ’bout me,
Is my offense stealth,
baby Or does it bury?
Do I flow sooooooo…
You’re up to your eyes?
Do I know so,
And, just compromise?
Compromise the principle,
And, claim “’cause I’m simple!”

You don’t stink much,
How ’bout me?
Your hole smells fine,
How ’bout mine?
We don’t think much —
Stupidity

bookmark_borderTirade (On Parade)

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We thought we had it made,
’til Mercury,
Threw it into retrograde.

We thought, “Made in the shade,”
’til everybody,
Spazzed n’ went into — TIRADE!

Poking each other in the eye,
Could we move any further awry?
Promoting attacks,
Or, turning our backs,
What do I care… barely?
Poked In The Eye As long as it’s not me,
That has to die,
Until I’m left standing alone,
Maybe that would bring it home?
The thought,
The idea,
That we’re in this together,
It’s brought,
To be dear,
Left with myself… forever.

Having thought it threw,
I can speak for me,
But, don’t know about you?
I’m afraid,
Of TIRADE!
No… don’t wanna see TIRADE! on parade.

bookmark_bordermeddleURGEy

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I thought I smelt something bad,
In Denmark,
Maybe some Limburger cheese I had,
Left its mark?

I study the urge to meddle,
And, in fact,
It’s a craving,
I’ve been having.

Metallurgy is solid,
Something I can get my arms around,
And, it’s been found,
The science is valid,
But, meddle-URGEy,
Is riddled with variables,
Like brain surgery,
We could be left vegetables.

The art of working meddles,
And, how the huckster peddles,
Trying his best,
To sell his mess.

The art of working meddles,
Ore, separating one from other matters?
Extracting one’s responsibility,
From how it effects me.

I study the urge to meddle,
And, in fact,
It’s a craving,
I’ve been having.

NOTES
Webster’s Definition:
Metallurgy
Met”al*lur`gy, n. [F. m[‘e]tallurgie, fr. L. metallum metal, Gr. — a mine + the root of work. See {Metal}, and {Work}.] The art of working metals, comprehending the whole process of separating them from other matters in the ore, smelting, refining, and parting them; sometimes, in a narrower sense, only the process of extracting metals from their ores.