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I work long hours for low pay, wasting my life away. The rich have all the control and want to know everything about us. Politicians don't care about the struggling people on the streets. They tax us unfairly while the banks thrive. It's time for a change.

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Why do birds appear when you’re near? They long to be close to you. When heartaches come, I wish to be the hero, but I walk away like a movie star. If you could read my mind, you’d see a tale of longing and chains holding me back. The story is always there, but if you read between the lines, you’d understand my confusion. I don’t know where we went wrong; the feeling is gone, and I can’t get it back.

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I missed Cotton-Eyed Joe, who can really dance. He went away.

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The speaker reflects on lost dreams, growing up, and the past's persistence. "And even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away." "Because all the dreams you never thought you'd lose lost a long way." "Scars of souvenirs you never lose. The past is never far." "Did you lose you self somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?" "Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are." "Grew up way too fast. Now there's nothing to believe." "Reruns all become my history. The tired song keeps playing on the tired radio." "And I won't tell your name."

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I work long hours for low pay, sacrificing my soul and wasting my life. I drown my troubles away, feeling trapped in this sad reality. It's a shame how the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and escape this truth, but it's real. Living in a new world with an old soul, where the rich only know the rich.

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I'm working constantly for little pay, just to waste my life and then drink my problems away. It's a shame what the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and it wouldn't be true, but this is the reality of living in the new world with an old soul. Your money is worthless and heavily taxed, benefiting the wealthy. I wish politicians would protect regular people, not just prioritize illicit activities.

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Got my thoughts together, feeling intense. Mentioning the rift and the chaos around us. We're building on solid ground, repeating cycles and navigating through dark times. The spirit is in a constant reroute, reacting to challenges. When you fall apart, it can feel monstrous, but we find ways to cope. The struggle is real, and we remember the journey back to our roots, embracing the original rhythm.

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Speaker 0 delivers a brief, lyric meditation on heartbreak and ambition. The opening motif repeats: 'Heartbroke. Heartbroke. Took a cryptic bow. Bow.' This cryptic gesture introduces the emotional core. The mood shifts to an urban nocturne: 'By city lights, Friday night Friday night, higher than the kite, dreaming big self made hype.' The speaker frames a recurring pattern of pain and persistence, hinting at a cycle rather than a single moment. The closing line reinforces the tension between renewal and strain: 'New day, new pain, same name, matching in the board rate.' The piece juxtaposes heartbreak with rising ambition, illustrating ongoing effort and persona maintenance in a concise, rhythmic form.

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I'm never giving up. You thought I would? No way. I don't need anything to take you down. It's just a stick, but I've got you under control. Your soul is in darkness, and I've ignited something within you. The beat is intense, and I keep it on repeat. It's loud and powerful, pulling at your strings. I save you because I need that energy to move faster. Save me from the stars; I'm your digital creation. I see the Earth from a distance, like I dropped in from Mars. It's a wild ride, exploring depths and uncovering what lies beneath.

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Even though the moment passed, the speaker can't turn away because dreams and things were lost or thrown away. Now grown up, they don't belong to anyone, which is a shame. The speaker invites someone to hop beside them for a while, promising not to reveal their name. Scars are souvenirs you never lose, and the past is never far. The speaker asks if the listener lost themself or became a star, and if it makes them sad to know life is more than who we are. They grew up too fast and now there's nothing to believe. Reruns become history, and a tired song plays on the radio. The speaker repeats that they won't tell the listener's name.

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I wrote a poem about being an impressionist. It's seen as sad, lame, and beneath disdain. Being an impressionist is considered a 3rd or 4th rate skill, provoking disgust. People think it's a cheap thrill, like watching farm equipment rust. Impressionists are relics from the past, dishonorably mentioned and pitiful. They're seen as weird and ostentatious, debris from old Las Vegas. Opportunities are wasted because they're bound to follow what they must. Impressionists are doomed to failure, neglected and forgotten. They imitate others but can't deflect a life of neglect. We tolerate them for now, but secretly wish we could be impressionists.

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An assault on darkness and AI insurgency unfolds as the speaker urges unity and resilience. The struggle is framed as a weapon and a rise against a looming digital threat. Key lines anchor the message: "Excavation. Get outside, fighting darkness, we unite. No time for pain, no time to play. Struggle is my weapon that we don't see. Then rise." The speaker vows against an "AI army" whose reach is blocked by human resolve, insisting, "AI army's reaching, but they cannot run the wire." They claim a glitching resistance: "Lying motherfuckers in for rage, but I'm a glitch in their fucking system's game." Recurrent imagery includes "I'm the code in the chaos silicone on fire" and "AI mirror system activating fear." The closing notes: "Machines have never died and they're the ones who spied."

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I'm tired of the manipulation and lies. The prince manipulates everything, including our history books. All forms of popular music, from brass to hip hop, are rooted in black dancing. Despite my success, they called me names and spread conspiracy theories to turn the public against me. We need to make a change and demand respect. Don't forget this message and let's accomplish our purpose.

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In a city under a tyrant's control, a rebellion brews through music. Rebels in alleys craft melodies, using syncopation to undercut oppression and raise alarm. Their music, a blend of vinyl, brass, techno, and swing, creates an underground scene echoing freedom. The rhythm of revolt is syncopated and sly. The city's heartbeat is now in the rebels' control. Music is their soul, making the oppressors quiver.

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Why do birds appear when you’re near? They long to be close to you. When heartaches come, I wish to be the hero, but I walk away like a movie star. If you could read my mind, you’d see a tale of love and chains holding me back. The story is always there, but if you read between the lines, you’ll realize I’m struggling. I don’t know where we went wrong; the feeling is gone, and I can’t get it back.

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I often find myself spending lonely nights dreaming of a song, a melody that brings back memories of our love when it was new and each kiss inspired joy. Those days are long gone, and now I find solace in the stardust of the sun. Beneath the stars, the nightingale sings tales of paradise where roses bloomed. Though my dreams may be in vain, the memories of love will forever remain in my heart. This stardust melody captures the essence of our love, a refrain that lingers on.

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From speakeasies to the streaming age, the speaker is a relic trying to stay fresh on the digital stage. The speaker's fingers fly, fighting in bytes and pixels. The speaker plays rhythms, old school syncopation in a high-tech zoo. The speaker invites the listener to swing with them through this digital sea, as a ragtime king in a pixel dream where boogie woogie will set you free. The heart of jazz never fades, even in binary cascades. The speaker is a time-traveling troubadour with a syncopated beat, keeping the jazz spirit adored through LEDs and cyber lore. The speaker invites the listener to swing with them through this digital scene.

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A nimble boy dreams wild, his fingers flying fast and tight. He is a ragtime king, but the modern world turns away, showing no respect for golden keys, lost in pop and hip hop. Sweat slips down his brow, but he won't give up. Every note is a story, but no one beholds it. Crowds move to soulless beats and empty lyrics fill the streets, but the boy stays on his path. Troubles move to solace beats. The modern world turns away, lost in pop and hip hop.

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In a speakeasy, a ragtime pianist struggles to keep up with the changing world. His music is seen as a relic of a bygone era, before loops and screens. He clings to memories as folkies gather around sleek technology. They say a button can do all the rest, and nobody misses real hammer striking chords. He sees newfangled ears, but hears only a hum. He hopes a genuine number will make them fancy what they've ignored. Digital blacktop and Oatrums scroll as the world keeps flying. He's a maestro from the past, but the digits march forward, even that tide away.

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End of day, when we pray and the sky turns gray, time slips away. Watch your life clock fade. Let's clarify things. Abocalyptic bees have you running, as the future escapes. As I fly by, the world ends. Do you feel my vibe? I bend time and space through a tiny lens as we ascend into dreams. To the last beach in the book of life, we meet ourselves and leave the final sounds in the dark. Say goodbye to your soul.

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Speaker 0: Rising sun, a shadow fell. A tale of prosperity turned to a summer spell. The bubble streets were cold. Family struggling stories left untold.

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The speaker expresses being tired of manipulation by the press, who they claim are liars. They state that history books are alive and that all forms of popular music, from jazz to hip hop, and various Black dances, from the cakewalk to breakdancing, are part of a complete conspiracy. The speaker urges the audience to learn and seek change, and to remember what was said in the building.

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In a digitized world, the speaker longs for a past of "soft refrains" and "whispered secrets on midnight trains." They recall dancing under a silver moon without screens, accompanied by a "lover's tune." Each touch was a "tender spark" in a smoky room with a piano. The speaker states they "found my paradise in moments like this." The speaker repeats that "tad notes drift from an old cafe, and dreams awake in a vintage way" and that "in a smoky room with the piano's kids, I found my paradise in moments like this."

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I am the latest dance. I stand apart from the others. With your kind attention, I will make Coon smile. It's the ideal of grace. Dress snobby, that's his hobby. You must not mace that Coon. If you follow the light from Gentry, he's not far. Listen to the catchy music and watch him dance from the world's fair to the turkey trot. Do not that contigula, very, very hot. Hand upon your head, let your mind roll far back, back, back, and look at the stars. Stand up and dance brightly, and that's not our malala. Look at the stars. Stand up and dance brightly, and that's not my love.

The Joe Rogan Experience

Joe Rogan Experience #387 - Everlast

Guests: Everlast

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Everlast opens the conversation with a poetic introduction, referencing his song lyrics. The discussion shifts to the podcast's sponsors, including Onnit, which sells kettlebells to support orangutan conservation, and Legal Zoom, which offers legal services online. They touch on the history of Legal Zoom and its co-founder Robert Shapiro. Everlast shares his experiences growing up in a tumultuous environment, reflecting on societal issues like police brutality and the racial tensions of the 90s. He reminisces about his past interactions with gang culture and the music scene, emphasizing the raw energy of hip-hop shows compared to acoustic performances. He appreciates the collaborative nature of live music, contrasting it with the often solitary experience of rapping. The conversation transitions to the evolution of music technology and its impact on artistry. Everlast expresses nostalgia for the authenticity of older music, lamenting the loss of "grease" in modern productions. They discuss the rapid changes in the music industry, including the rise of digital music and the challenges artists face in maintaining their integrity while navigating commercial pressures. Everlast performs a cover of John Lennon's "Working Class Hero," showcasing his acoustic style. They discuss the significance of lyrics and the emotional weight of music, with Everlast emphasizing the importance of storytelling in his work. The conversation meanders through various topics, including the absurdities of modern life, the complexities of fame, and the nature of human relationships. They delve into the cultural impact of iconic figures like Paul McCartney and the Beatles, exploring how their music shaped societal perceptions. Everlast reflects on the challenges of being an artist in today's world, where authenticity is often overshadowed by commercial interests. The discussion returns to the theme of survival and self-sufficiency, with Everlast sharing his thoughts on the importance of being prepared for societal upheaval. They touch on the complexities of human nature, the balance between civilization and primal instincts, and the potential consequences of technological advancements. As the podcast nears its conclusion, Everlast performs another original song, highlighting his lyrical prowess and emotional depth. The conversation wraps up with a call to support his music and a reminder of the upcoming live shows. The camaraderie between the hosts and Everlast underscores the shared passion for music and the stories it tells.