Guest
In Which Chonny Claims That He “Won't take up too much of your time“ At The Beginning Of A 9-And-A-Half-Minute Song. Original written by Tim Minchin. Cover rewritten, arranged, recorded, mixed, mastered, butchered, chewed, spat out and stomped on by Chonny Jash. Spotify: Bandcamp: SoundCloud: --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- LYRICS: This is my song. Or at least, part of it. It’s one third mine and two thirds... not. It’s written by a red-headed man far more talented than I am. I’m frankly not quite sure I have the right. But the one thing I can say for sure is that every line and every chord prevents my end by just one step more. So it’s not my song, but that’s fine. I promise that I won’t take up too much of your time. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s Not Perfect. This is my Earth, and I live in it. It’s one third dirt and two thirds water. And it rotates and revolves through space at rather an impressive pace, and never even messes up my hair. And here’s the really weird thing: the force created by its spin is the force that stops the chaos flooding in. This is my Earth, and it’s fine. It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect. This is my house, and I live in it. It’s made of cracks and photographs. We rent it from a guy who bought it from a guy ...who bought it from a guy whose grandad left it to him. And the weirdest thing is that this house has locks to keep the bad guys out, but they’re mostly used to lock ourselves in. This is my house, and it’s fine. It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. This is my body, and I live in it. It’s twenty-two and six months old. It’s changed a lot since it was new. It’s done things it wasn’t built to do. I’ve often tried to alter its design. And the weirdest thing about it is, I’ve spent so much time hating it, but it never says a bad word about me. This is my body, and it’s fine. It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect. This is my brain, and I live in it. It’s made of love and… …bad song lyrics. It’s tucked away behind my eyes, where all my fucked up thoughts can hide, ‘cos God forbid I hurt somebody. And the weirdest thing about a mind is that every answer that you find is the basis of a brand new cliché. This is my brain, and it’s fine. It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect. I’m not quite sure I’ve worked out how to work it. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. This is my spirit, and I’m stuck in it. It’s made of pain, regret and shame. But the mechanisms it’s laid inside instill in me what’s wrong and right. Without it, by now I’m sure I would have died. And the weirdest thing about it is, I’m not quite sure that it exists and yet, I still obsess over it. This is my soul, and it’s fine. If I’m lucky, it will be with me for the rest of my life. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s not perfect.
