| Thunderous beats shake the ground underneath
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| Hundreds of feet that jump and leap and thump drunkenly
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| Beneath the trunks of people who’ve all come to see
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| Someone unbelievable, with a tongue to speak
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| With two lungs to breathe and a mind composed
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| To rhyme blindfolded on high vinyl ropes
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| And drive winding roads disinclined to doze
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| I won’t let my eyes close ‘til it’s my time to go
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| As I find the signposts to keep me oriented
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| To keep me soaring into the morning with no resentment
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| To give me more incentive to get my stories printed
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| Ignoring poor intentions until this party’s ended
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| I’m sorry if you’re offended; |
| just count to ten
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| And then bounce around when the record sound spins
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| I’m out to move mountains with a fountain pen
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| And then step down proudly in the crowd and grin
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| I’ve been around the bend, and I’m trying to make it back
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| To the only place I have where I’m still safe at last
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| As I trace my path through this race of rats
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| All I taste is ashtrays, waste and trash
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| Every paycheque cashed represents my survival |
| I go from wet to dry as I flow; |
| I’m inter-tidal
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| My style has been stifled by my most intense rival
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| Who resides in my throat and prevents my arrival
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| At the end of this wide road, this Möbius strip
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| It’s got me frozen stiff, lonely and sick
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| Until the moment I lift this microphone to my lips
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| Then every poem is a glimpse of a solar eclipse
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| As cold as the polar tips before greenhouse gases
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| I bring out raps at extremely loud bashes
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| ‘Cause I’ve seen how fast people stream out of classes
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| Where senile bastards read from out the classics
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| My dreams outlast it; |
| I stay in position
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| But my name is a prison and my goals remain distant
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| I’m unable to make decisions between fame and wisdom
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| So my aim is missin' and I just blame the system
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| I bitch and complain, fixin' to quit payin' my dues
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| It’s a game I choose to play, and it’s okay if I lose
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| Say if I do, take two, another day in my shoes
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| Makin' moves, breakin' through; |
| I’m not afraid if I bruise
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| I create flavours and moods with wide brush strokes
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| And use subtle notes to describe crushed hopes |
| When knives cut throats, lives blood soaked
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| Eyes shut closed, I just float by such gross
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| Types of close-up descriptive images
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| And flip minute to minute ‘cause the script is limitless
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| Depictions of women and kids gripped in grimaces
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| Diminish in a mist as the fiction finishes
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| Pictures of innocence begin to evaporate
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| I’ve been too fascinated with tragic fates
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| To graduate, and I tend to exaggerate
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| In fact, let me navigate back to my happy place
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| Where friends congratulate and there’s pleasure and pain
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| Sunny weather and rain, milk and honey, leisure and strain
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| Where the earth forever remains but it’s never the same
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| It just gets better with age like the veterans claim
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| As I sever the chains at the end of my noose
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| And let energies loose to get my enemy’s goose
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| Go ahead, send in the troops; |
| just remember the truth
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| Everything loops back to the centre’s replenishing juice |