Milo - One Lonely Owl [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

In the middle of a bad dream I ask whoever is filming not to stop
I don't know what a nightmare is called when I am napping during the day
Or if I am awake
But I'm guessing it's really all the same
I enter this hole of self-pity
Which is really housing another hole
Of self loathing
Which reveals itself as a sea
Of utter contempt and I
Am now floating
The closest I came to knowing God was being caught in a rowing shell on the Fox River in the middle of a wicked storm
I looked into God's eyes, and they were gray--
Like my favorite woolen sweater, thrice worn and thrifted
I guess at heart, I'm a materialist
People often ask me what it's like to fly the coop
Budding ornithologists are weary of tired analogies
I want to be a writer, if given the chance I would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss her
And another for the all-seeing eye of her big sister
Rain drops smooched my hair soft
Your kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoft
I never wore a tie that didn't come from the thrift store
Before I was a vegetarian I should've fished more
I wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than here
My spidey-sense tingles whenever Eddie Vedder is near
I've never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineating
I've never really wanted to be remembered
When Robert died I was in a bookstore that wasn't born yet
And all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroes
Dust! Dust! Dust!
Dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterday;
Dust on the tombs of the heroes of today
Dust
Dust
Dust
I miss you

Do you like your raps sung by a prettier gent
Who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?
I'll fade into oblivion when my prophecy's spent
In a megaplex guessing where my office copies were lent
Now I, never was ever the best break dancer
And you'll never hear my name on your CB police scanner
But I can hoist my Braveheart-esque banner to the moon
And create much havoc in a small-town, college kid's room
Hip hop's grand prize is a following of nasty MILFs
Who understitched their lonely son's Eagle Scout quilts
Which explains why the lad is so passive-aggressive
And hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressive
*one breath*

I was farmed for my similarity to a Duracell battery
And quickly abandoned at a calculator factory
I'm no Wizard of Waverly
But I wear second hand goods like they were made for me
I went to school to become a philosopher
But dropped out to be a sober Kid Cudi imposter
With a spoon that's porous, I lounge in Siberia
Dining on borscht with Boris
My mind has the drive of an old FORD Taurus
Unfortunately my mind has no roads: it's just a forest
Rap's Kurt Vonnegut, Blurb Fontset

For you I would cross the infinite sea of midpoints
And eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger joint
When we're old, please call me if you crack your diskjoint
I might be busy keeping these rhymes on point
Catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line
Dropping wizened rhymes
About the fall of Byzantine
I said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line
Dropping wizened rhymes
About the fall of Byzantine

I'm an old man eating Zatarain's with cataracts
Worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking caps
A trip to the restroom can last me a couple hours
I remember when folks thought MCs had divine powers
Pretending we were Word Wizards and Conjurers;
TV told us we were murderers on the lam from their officers
In many ways I'm this culture's premiere historian
I told a young man at the bus stop and he said I was borin' him
Now I'm in the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home
Cutting out hearts from the same cardboard I danced upon
I couldn't possibly put to words how depressed I am
Every week I look forward to hearing the Funkmaster's Jam
I made some notes for what else I could blab about
The other night I told my bed nurse I was swagged out
She put me in my place fast, responding
Why can't you wipe your own ass?
Damn