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Are You On 10 Yet

mic drop

Mind Games

(Verse 1)
The English tongue, a twisty thing
With stress that makes the vowels sing
An-i-mal, like cit-i-zen, bold
Com-e-dy, a story to be told
Dan-ger-ous, ob-vi-ous, they sway
Three syllables, leading the way
But try to find a sound that blends
When stress, toward the end, ascends


(Chorus)
Oh the lonely words, they stand alone
No echoing note, no rhythmic clone
Like angst and breadth, a hollow sound
No perfect match can be found
They’re lost in verse, a rhymeless land
The majority, it seems, in command
A sea of syllables, adrift and free
No perfect echo, for all to see


(Verse 2)
Like bulb and depth, a sudden stop
Fifth and film, can never hop
On rhyming feet, a dance denied
Glimpsed, gulfed, in echoes hide
Kirsch and midsts, they stand so stark
Mulcts and ninth, leave their lonely mark
Oblige, sculpts, the sounds are strange
Sowthed, southed, across the range
Sixth, and twelfth, a solemn plea
Whilst, and vuln, no harmony


(Verse 3)
The wolf, the wolve, a howling call
Angel, angry, destined to fall
Outside the rhyme, a broken link
Anxious, chimney, on the brink
Of rhyming pairs, a futile quest
Comment, elbow, put to the test
Empty, engine, a lonely plight
Foible, foyer, in the fading light
Hundred(th) , husband, the rhythm’s gone
Liquid, luggage, carry on


(Verse 4)
Monster, neutron, lost and lone
Nothing, olive, seeds unsown
Penguin, polka, a silent beat
Problem, sanction, incomplete
Sandwich, secret, whispers low
Something, zigzag, where do they go?
But hold! There's hope, a tiny spark
For some, there's respite in the dark


(Verse 5)
Like Teige, for oblige, a rare find
Chilver, for silver, one of a kind
Hurkle, for circle, a whispered grace
Sulf, for gulf, in a hidden space
Milne, for kiln, a family name
Didst, for midst, a mirrored flame
Plinth, for synth, the sound's refined
Smitham, for rhythm, a thought defined
Gyron, for siren, a gentle call
Oillet, for toilet, standing tall
Tomen, for woman, a subtle art
Hurple, curple, for purple, set apart


(Bridge)
And what of orange, that tricky word?
No perfect match, so often heard
But there's a mountain, Blorenge, so grand
And Gorringe, a name across the land
But sporange, alas, a different tone
The unreduced vowel, leaves it all alone


(Chorus)
Oh the lonely words, they stand alone
No echoing note, no rhythmic clone
Like angst and breadth, a hollow sound
No perfect match can be found
They’re lost in verse, a rhymeless land
The majority, it seems, in command
A sea of syllables, adrift and free
No perfect echo, for all to see


(Outro)
So listen close, to the words unsung
The rhymeless ones, on the English tongue
Their solitude, a special grace
A challenge met, in time and space.
They stand alone, with silent strength,
A quirky beauty, in full length.

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