PETKE 3BEPKE(CRS Ft ARCHY KAMAROO)-Nije Monotonija

LUDI SRBI - ŠMRKAČIM (Mimi Bas Jak Mashup)

07 - Ispeci pa reci

Povlo, reper rodjen u Kraljevu 1990 godine. Deo Mrak klan grupe, koja je vec sada veoma poznata u krugovima ljudi koji cene underground zvuk.

POVLO &amp; COMBE - Samo Svojom Zaslugom

CRS-7 SOMA SUZA rmx preview loop

© 2006–2025 Lance Thomas Davidson. All Rights Reserved. No section of the lyrics, melody, tune, baseline, or any specific compilation of melody, tune, or harmony—whether whole or in part, in conjunction with or without lyrics—may be copied, reproduced, recorded, transmitted, broadcast, distributed, or adapted in any form or by any means, including digital, mechanical, or performance media, without prior written consent of the author and producer, Lance Thomas Davidson.

Exception: An unlimited personal use, advertisement, and promotional license is hereby granted indefinitely to Kevin Bacon. He may use this song, melody, baseline, and/or lyrics, whether in part or in whole, for any personal, artistic, or promotional purpose not connected to direct monetary gain.

“Six Degrees of Betrayal”
Written & Produced by Lance Thomas Davidson

With a sigh he faced that twisted steel, a corkscrew born of a discount deal. He turned the crank—fate went awry—ricocheted off the wall, struck him in the eye. “Oh me, oh my,” he groaned in pain, “Six degrees? No—one direct train.” A bottle sealed, a lesson learned, when cheap tools bite, your luck’s returned.

He lit a candle, soft and sweet, till scent and smoke began to meet. The lavender turned on its lord, choked the room—betrayal restored. A jigsaw sprawled across the floor, nine-hundred-ninety-nine and more. One piece gone to mystery’s den, he swore he’d never puzzle again.

Six degrees, six mistakes, life’s a dance the fool remakes. Every tragedy’s half a grin, when the corkscrew pops and flies right in.

He dried his hands beneath the roar, hot-air lie that helped no more. The heater coughed, the wind just teased, left his palms half-wet, half-pleased. Then shin splints struck mid-morning stride, like karma’s cramp he couldn’t hide. “Oh me, oh my,” he muttered dry, “Even my legs don’t want me to try.”

Four-thirty thoughts began to creep, philosophy stole his chance to sleep. He pondered life, its grand design, while the clock betrayed his peace of mind. His wife said “Cream will turn back time,” he froze his face mid grin sublime. “Oh me, oh my,” he sighed so deep, “I’ve botoxed my soul and can’t count sheep.”

Yeah, he struck the match, candle flared too wide, lavender vengeance filled the sky. Puzzle on the floor, one piece gone, he’s talkin’ to cardboard till the break of dawn. Dryer blowin’ air, all bluff, no dry, hands still drippin’ like they wanna cry. Took one stride, shin screamed “betrayed!” fell to the curb like a stunt parade. Four-thirty thoughts in the middle of night, he’s fightin’ deep dreams with a flashlight. Face cream froze, man, couldn’t smile, stuck lookin’ shocked for a country mile. Okra slid by like a greased-up eel, he said, “Dinner’s a prank and pain’s real!” Guitar strings snapped with a spiteful sigh—“Six degrees of hurt,” said the Bacon guy.

Okra slimed across his plate, he called it fate and chewed too late. Fingers fumbled the old guitar, the strings cried out like broken tar. Still he laughed, that tired guy, “One more betrayal, one more why.”

So raise a glass to life’s design, where trouble mixes with cheap red wine. Six degrees or one misfire, he’s still smilin’ through the miswired choir. Oh me, oh my—the world’s awry, but Kevin Bacon’s laughin’ dry.



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