I'm Eternally Grateful To My Brother For This

So last year my brother came home for break (he goes to school in Washington, D.C.), and told me this story.

He told me about this guy he met who went to high school with his friend Rachel. This guy, Andre Allen, was couch-surfing. For those of you who don't know what couch-surfing is, it's when you crash on your friends' couches for a couple of days and move around.

So this guy was sleeping on Rachel's couch, and he happened to mention that he was a musician. So Mike and Rachel and their friends asked him to play for them.

And he was amazing.

Seriously, does anyone remember in English class when we talked about verbal wit? Yeah. He's got it. His lyrics are funny, smart, and interesting, while still wacky. Not to mention the fun melodies he's written.

Anyway, my brother and his friends recorded him on a computer and my brother gave them to me. Here are the lyrics to one of his songs:

Dostoevsky's Demise by Allen Andre

Dostoevsky was made off of cells, mostly water, mostly water
And Dostoevsky was made off of booze mostly vodka, mostly vodka
And Edgar Allen was made off of prose, mostly poetry, mostly poetry
And Edgar Allen was made off of woes, mostly whiskey, mostly whiskey

When the storm of drunkenness evaded,
We found ourselves among the hated bourgeois
Something other than nobility
Has crushed our souls and made the barricades come down, the shots are fired in the dark
A brainstorm made much heavier by drink but when we stop to think, something brings us back
To those street corners where we would stand on shoe boxes, those crazy fools who shout obscenities at the crowd,
Their vocation one of leisure and of wealth, when the summer comes, we'll drink to their health

And Dostoevsky was made up of cells, a million mitochondria and
million private hells,
And Charles Dickens was made off of kids, mostly orphans, mostly
orphans
And Charles Dickens was driven by drugs, mostly endorphins, mostly
endorphins
And William Wordsworth was made off of words, mostly sober, mostly
sober
And William Wordsworth was made off of words, mostly empty, mostly empty

Well our entire literary establishment was driven by intoxicants
And our entire western civilization depends on quite a lot of alcoholic rejuvenation,
Granted themselves freedoms unheard of by the press, Dylan accidentally slipped into drunken harmonica solos,
Hitting new lows as they pull up to red carpets, the literary dinosaurs
whose books are thrown in tar pits,
When we pull up the fossil a few centuries later, we'll find the works
of genius of some misunderstood creator,

And only time will tell who gets to stay who gets to stay in cells,
And only time will tell who gets to stay who gets to stay in cells,
And only time will tell who gets to stay who gets to stay in cells.