| I woke up thinkin' about this planet being wiped away
|
| Well, not, maybe not the planet 'cause, 'cause the Earth takes care of itself
|
| But, but us
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| And then, uh, I turn on the radio and heard-heard Russia was fittin' send
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| rockets into space to blow up satellites, knock out power grids here
|
| I suck my teeth and kiss
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| Seven horrors of Babylon
|
| Scratched in the palm of a vagabond
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| Matter and form
|
| I’m at where I belong
|
| Dedicated to babies who came feet first
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| James Byrd, drag along
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| Back 'em off, blasted arm
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| Shrapnel gloss glass and steel thunderclap
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| Run it back Gotham, necessary toxins
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| Block bent, jot what I feel is my heart spin
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| Commonwealth, living wages, human income
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| Whichever way the wind front
|
| Earth either in a pair of velvet creepers
|
| Like body Dreamwork
|
| Spirit weaver do your research
|
| Every bar is a keyword, not ether
|
| Kill up the rework
|
| Loop back and reverse, until new unexpected patterns with the intention to
|
| destabilize language to really get at the core of what’s happening
|
| Tools of war plus sacrament
|
| Take, eat this my body
|
| Take, eat this my body
|
| At the mercy of forces which can be explained, extrapolated and feared
|
| No, we don’t say that word around here
|
| No, we don’t say that word around here
|
| Mark on the door is home spared
|
| Poems, prayers
|
| Was it a hoax or did they really disappear?
|
| My folks been more than aware
|
| Year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year
|
| We all thrive out here, player
|
| Player
|
| Well said, hear, hear
|
| Well, I for one
|
| A long and storied history of fake thuggin'
|
| Wasn’t around for boss mean muggin'
|
| 2Pac went to art school, but look at the grave they dug him
|
| And then you shoot your cousin
|
| Six feet deep fo you realize you bug it
|
| Rats with the cat drug in, but love it
|
| On the headstone, but she at home dug in
|
| Stock bones piled in the pot, bubblin'
|
| Effort’ly dance from swings of the truncheon
|
| She said, «I'm not fittin' to have a drug dealer for a husband
|
| End of discussion,» and it was
|
| Regardless, the racket, Slazenger
|
| Darkens the fifty-seven passenger
|
| Dungeons walls was his calendar
|
| Lucy in the sky was the Challenger
|
| A balance in all things, yes
|
| Still half surprised half impressed at who still cashin' cheques
|
| Like who the fuck still smokin' shwag sess
|
| Smilin' in hospital beds wearin' a vest, nigga sick
|
| They really wanted to be nighty-six
|
| Talk about trauma
|
| And if that blew up, they come to your talk with the lamas |