They say, everything could be replaced.
Nina Simone is dead, alas.
Alabama’s got me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
And everybody knows about Mississippi goddam!
I think this awkward, broken translation of Pravda’s obituary says it best, in a 7.30-in-the-morning first-cup-of-coffee sort of way:
Why are cigars lit at a match? They are lit with a strong and natural flame of a match which unwillingly slips from under professional hands; the flame sputters, resists, envelops rolled tobacco leaves; it gives the leaves the passion and the flame. The head of a match falls off in a second. It is only in hands of a professional that a match lights straight away.
Mostly because she isn’t here to say it herself anymore.
Lord have mercy on this land of mine
We all gonna get it in due time
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong there
I’ve even stopped believing in prayer
Don’t tell me
I tell you
Me and my people just about due
I’ve been there so I know
They keep on saying “Go slow!”
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