Your Body Is a Wonderland (by John Mayer)

I didn't write this work but, for me it's a perfect example of creative writing talking about lyrics.

Just read and enjoy:

We got the afternoon

You got this room for two

One thing I've left to do

Discover me

Discovering you

One mile to every inch of

Your skin like porcelain

One pair of candy lips and

Your bubblegum tongue

And if you want love

We'll make it

Swimming a deep sea

Of blankets

Take all your big plans

And break 'em

This is bound to be a while

Your body Is a wonderland

Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)

Your body Is a wonderland

Something 'bout the way your hair falls in your face

I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillowcase

You tell me where to go and

Though I might leave to find it

I'll never let your head hit the bed

Without my hand behind it

you want love?

We'll make it

Swimming a deep sea

Of blankets

Take all your big plans

And break 'em

This is bound to be a while

Your body Is a wonderland

Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)

Your body Is a wonderland

Damn baby

You frustrate me

I know you're mine all mine all mine

But you look so good it hurts sometimes

Your body Is a wonderland

Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)

Your body Is a wonderland

Your body is a wonderland

Galiza Ceibe!

Deus libere dos seus pecados aos galeg@s que non saben vivir como galeg@s,

como tamén envíe ao inferno aos que non lles deixan vivir como tal.

Libera os teus propios sentimentos e loita por eles.

Viva Galiza ceibe!,

e libérate do mal de comprometidos nacionalismos.

Amén.

Changes

04:26 am. Drink and smoke. Dani’s pub is ready for more coke and much alcohol. I keep time with my feet as the music sounds while my girl is dancing with that man at the other side of the bar. My mind is full of dreadful thoughts, my brains are lost. I’m getting crazy. Can you feel it? Please, roll another joint.

Green grass, smoking paper turn into chewing tobacco, toilet paper, shit! I’m feeling relaxed but my baby keeps on dancing with that stupid guy and I’m getting bad.

Can you notice it? My friend, roll another joint.

I can´t forget when I met prostituting herself in that smelly whorehouse. However, it seems she wan't to remember the day when I went there and I got her out of that hole. Fuckin’ whore!

Pass the joint and roll another one, dear friend.

While the night was drunk and smoked my friend and I were baked enough for going out on the make until next day.

Today life has changed. She’s not the girl she used to be. The stupid man is now a lucky man with her. I’m a stoned single guy. My dear friend is not my friend any more since I met him dancing and smoking joints with that dirty whore.

Can you believe it? Can you? Let’s roll another joint. That’s the song I love to listen here without you.

Y Siempre Estaré Contigo

El tiempo perdido,

esperando el último suspiro,

quieto, en silencio,

destinado a acabar tocado y hundido.

Así es como pasaba yo el tiempo,

así es como mi tiempo ya se acabó.

Así he desembarcado en tu playa de arena y sol.

Mira y Calla

Ella me mira, no me habla.

Ella me habla y no me mira.

Pero cuando habla, cuanto calla.

O Primeiro e o Último

Era o primeiro que a miraba. Sí, dende o primeiro día sabía que era ela. Deixara varias no camiño, todas o mesmo pero ninguna igual, non. Neste caso tratábase dunha paisaxe ben distinta. Un lugar onde atopar prezados tesouros agochados entre a súa perfecta alma de corpo presente.

Seus ollos ollan pra el cando el non se decata e, se se decata, ela olla tamén.

Sen dúbida algunha era ela.

Por tal boca nunca saen mentiras, saen verbas de muller que din o que ela baila. El tropeza con súas pernas e sempre cae. Ela é de pernas miúdas pero seguen ven o compás; as del non dan feito, teñen que parar.

Abandonar era o seu destino. Foi o derradeiro día que a mirou.

God Save The British Steel!

Como en otras situaciones de la vida cotidiana, tenemos que seguir defendiendo nuestro territorio de la ocupación yanqui. Acepto que son los reyes del blus, r&b, rock, etc., vamos… la base de la ensalada. Pero esa ensalada hay que aderezarla. Y no me vale con metal americano (me hace mala digestión). Que si new metal, que si trash metal, que si death metal,… buah! Yo a no ser que sea con denominación de origen como el queso de Arzúa… Metallica, por ejemplo.

Yo soy más europeo. Llámame "refinado" si tienes cojones!, ahora que voy con mi camiseta negra de Iron Maiden.

El año pasado, tuve el privilegio de asistir en La Cubierta de Leganés (Madrid) al “Priest Fest” donde vi a uno de mis dos elegidos: Judas Priest. El otro es Saxon, que lo pude ver en concierto en Getafe meses antes. God Save the British Steel!:

PD : En el próximo capítulo no hablaremos ni del rock carabanchelero de Rosendo Mercado ni del rock suave de Los Suaves pero, recuerda, “no se vende rocanrol” y “Dios siempre será Suave”.