Who are the Beatroots,

Hard to see through,

Not quite expected,

Rarely contested; and well respected,

Reflective; and a little eccentric,

Electric, kinetic, rhythmic,

A clinical execution of musical elocution,

No illusions, a foregone conclusion; of taste,

So great; that we can all relate; if we concentrate,

Auscultate; and never deviate; from the arrows path,

Fired from The Beatroots bow of art; and class,

Surpassing all competition,

All original no repetition,

Conditioning us, petitioning us,

Penetrating the outer crust, convincing us,

The Beatroots are a must; and they don't cause a fuss;

Or wars or fights,

Maybe too polite; and well within their rights,

Calling for all to unite; and ignite; the fire,

Quench the souls desire,

No fakers of liars; welcome,

We've sworn to help them; through,

The clouds dark grey to the sky so blue,

With a style that's new; but old,

Familiar but never told,

Supple but unfolding,

Splitting and re-moulding, Holding fast,

An unstoppable force, causing contortions,

Of abnormal proportions, dissonant distortions,

Sound wave absorptions; not often found,

In a derivative sound, back from the underground,

Reborn and new, we planted and it grew,

A few; giant steps, and no regrets,

We try so hard to pass the test; and do our best,

To complete this quest,

Not ignorant but diligent, attentive and intelligent,

So You better think twice; coz we advocate acting nice; but standing tall,

Don't put our back to the wall; coz we're not so friendly to fools,

Pull; the reigns,

As the The Beatroots gallop out of the rain, into the sun,

There's a new arrival and The journey has begun

Now we belong,

Practised and strong, and all along; we've known,

Our time will be our own,

No moaning or cloning and condoning nothing but genius,

Don't deal with the meaningless.

The music is real and we play how we feel,

Write what we see and jam to be free,

Not out of want or vanity or greed,

This seeds; been sown in the dirt,

Roots strong, un-estimable worth,

A reflection of the time,

From a meeting of great minds,

Mixture of talent so sublime,

Scrubbing at the grime, separating sin from crime,

All the time; working, not shirking,

Smoking and hoping,

Drinking and thinking, winking; at lady luck,

Beckoning the bucks,

Chuck; the fame away,

There's no pop idol in here today,

Nothing can stop us so come what may,

Today; we heed,

Play until our fingers bleed,

Put up wit the grief; and poverty,

Which is no novelty,

But never grovelling and always prepared,

Pay our dues so never scared; or running,

Just preparing and shunning,

Causing people to be humming; our latest tune,

Downloadable for you; for free,

Just like entry; to gigs,

No wigs; no masks,

You're free at last,

To be yourself if you be love,

But check yourself if you're a thug,

Or you'll feel the Beatroots boxing glove,And a short, sharp shove; out the door,

And don't come back no more,

Until you're taking it in and learning the score,

Listen to the words,

Melodies like the birds,

We will be heard,

Unperturbed; we continue,

Undisturbed; to inspire you,

Never tire, often wired, always re-hired,

Confide; in us,

Ride; with us,

We're advising not telling,

We're wise and unyielding,

Wielding; a just sword,

Aiming for a higher reward,

That no-one can afford; to ignore,

The things we all know,

The Beatroots remind you and put it on show,

Slow; down the obtrusions,

Replace illicit illusions; and dogmatic confusion,

With altruistic reflection; and a deep connection; with nature,

The force that made you,

The truth that saves you,

No slaves; all equal,

There was no Beatroots prequel and there won't be a sequel,

We learned from the street school,

Hard knocks, hard beats,

Hard roots, hard bass,

Strong mind and happy face,

Right view and an air of grace,

"but Dane Glasby who is he?" say the rowdy; crowd in front of me,

"what does he believe, what does he hope to achieve?"

Wash up to your sleeves; and try to see,

That Dane isn't quite like you or me,

And probably doesn't want to be,

He's just a mortal man,

Another lamb; with no political plans,

But gets up each day and does what he can; to help,

We have no wealth to throw around,

So we sit down; think a little more profound,

Throw a few thoughts around,

Get into the beat, heat; up the vibe,

In the studio live; room,

Bass booming, buds blooming,

Sweat-hearts swooning and loosing; track of time,

The lyrical lines; make it all seem clear,

Why we play and write and why we're; all here,

The harmony sheer; bliss,

Maybe miss; a note or two,

listening too hard to Dane as he spews; some new; soulful speech,

fresh as a peach,

he doesn't mean to preach,

but he's got something to teach,

that cannot be taught as a degree,

an angle we seldom see,

not new, malicious or mean,

just explaining the worldly machine,

that we all can read, and see; but never bother to heed,

all wrapped up in our own beliefs,

but somehow Dane transcends,

by way of his parker pen,

renders in our head; what we've read; and sensed,

but forgotten and condensed; when the next days news,

hits us with some other kind of blues,

and we choose; to go about,

and ignore the resonating doubt,

but that's not what The Beatroots are about,

our stout; resolute opinion,

is calling for equals not minions,

making music not billions; of pounds,

keeping the sound; tight and underground; but all should hear it clear and loud,

not proud; or pretty,

he's just Dane and a ditty,

documenting history,

rockumenting philosophy,

shock; you and me,

with the public atrocities; of our age,

so turn the page; read the rhymes,

follow the signs; bob your head in time,

sing along to your favourite lines,

sublime; moving

evocative and proving; that you don't need a bachelor of arts,

for your words to worm their way into peoples hearts,

so laugh; or cry,

but sit back and enjoy the ride,

winds of words which promise to last,

syncopated stops and starts,

so think fast; and remember,

you're hearing no pretenders,

we live the life, Spartan, slender,

but clearly contenders; in this dreary dimension,

no pretension,

a natural selection,

so listen at work or in detention,

and if you like us mention; us to a friend,

and together feel the heat,

greet; the on-coming fleet,

get up out of your seat,

for a collaboration quite unique,

on the street; and in the mouths,

of all the kids in the south,

some shout; "dance!",

we whisper "listen",

let them prance; around all day,

coz we're on a mission,

conditioned; to be efficient,

reminiscent of things past,

with a contemporary slant,

making you chant; making you whistle,

the hairs on your back bristle,

respecting the Beatroots muscle,

connecting the kafuffle; and although; the music sounds slow,

it delves deeper than can be known,

an earth force undertone,

so put down your phone; shut your eyes,

and ride; on the tide; of the Beatroots lullaby,

and rely; on us and Dane,

to blow away the rain,

re-arrange your train; of thought,

so you remain; feeling fine,

like we do all the time,

careering down the line,

light hearted but heavy handed,

your brain soon branded,

coz The Beatroots have landed.

By Adam Hazlewood