| You see time stops still
|
| In the eye of the storm
|
| The foundation of my home
|
| Where my rhyming was born
|
| It’s a rhythmic reality,
|
| A remedy through riddles
|
| Where love’s a hurricane
|
| And you meet me in the middle
|
| It’s the good, the bad,
|
| The house I furnish
|
| The crystal clear sea,
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| The sound I worship
|
| The rush of the city,
|
| The calm of the Outback
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| The film called Life
|
| Where my heart is the soundtrack
|
| It’s that lucky streak
|
| Without no warning
|
| It’s the memory of cartoons
|
| On Saturday morning
|
| It’s that classic culture
|
| That connects the country
|
| Through raw energy
|
| That reflects we’re hungry
|
| It’s that timeless feeling
|
| That I get on stage
|
| It’s those government bills
|
| That I’ll never pay
|
| It’s that fun I have
|
| Free-styling with my mates
|
| My little getaway
|
| That only music can create
|
| You see time stops still
|
| In the eye of the storm
|
| The foundations of my home
|
| Where my rhyming was born
|
| It’s a rhythmic reality,
|
| A remedy through riddles
|
| Where love’s a hurricane
|
| And they meet me in the middle
|
| It’s the exotic breeze
|
| At the festival night show
|
| That hot sweaty air
|
| With the twist of that hydro
|
| It’s the power of my passion,
|
| The picture my pen paints
|
| Caressing the canvas
|
| To put my click in a zen state
|
| It’s that zone with my thought,
|
| The peace when it’s starlit
|
| That blazing fireplace,
|
| Bare feet on the carpet
|
| Or sitting on my porch
|
| Where this one sways freely
|
| And right through the night
|
| Until the sun rays greets me
|
| It’s the past love
|
| Still cooking inside
|
| It’s that warm fuzzy feeling
|
| When I look in her eyes
|
| It’s pouring out my heart and soul
|
| When I’m flipping the gems
|
| It’s catching my dreams,
|
| Lost in Pulp Fiction again,
|
| It’s like
|
| I’ll tell you what gets me by
|
| And gets me high,
|
| It’s watching flicks with my chick,
|
| Making love on the sofa
|
| It’s the bread that I can’t afford
|
| To chuck in the toaster
|
| It’s the real,
|
| That nothing comes close to
|
| It’s finally getting Bliss
|
| To puff on the dohja
|
| Yeah on more then 1 occasion,
|
| We’re sure to come and blaze 1
|
| When It’s heavy,
|
| Hit the hay at home,
|
| My horizontal haven
|
| It’s that echo through eternity
|
| That still hits live
|
| It’s life, a beautiful journey
|
| On a Bill Hicks ride
|
| It’s the chemestry,
|
| The brightest light,
|
| The 8th wonder
|
| The recipe of dynamite
|
| And Blade Runner
|
| It’s the truth,
|
| That justifies this
|
| It’s the father I have
|
| And the mother I miss
|
| It’s the love through my pencil
|
| When I feel the beat
|
| It’s 40, 000 going mental
|
| On St Kilda beach
|
| It’s 3 kids, in a club,
|
| Down a allley,
|
| That were sounding ill
|
| To march on through the Valley
|
| Of a Thousand Hills |