| Even the softest step
|
| Leaves footprints in the sand
|
| Whether you hold coin
|
| Or blade
|
| Or bow within your hand
|
| Even the lightest touch
|
| Leaves traces in the dust
|
| When coins are spent
|
| Bows are broken
|
| Blades decayed to rust
|
| I write my lyrics out in lines of hieroglyphics
|
| At about a mile a minute
|
| Never mind the vile and wicked
|
| Violent images, it might elicit
|
| I defy the cynics' diatribes and missives
|
| Swimming in the Nile and give a smiling crocodile a grimace
|
| For those who might have missed it
|
| My mind is mystic
|
| Like my life is mythic
|
| So don’t you try to shift it
|
| I’m a highly gifted kind of misfit
|
| The sands of time slide aside the pyramids
|
| In a manner that’s quite unscientific
|
| I take a large obelisk or the hard top of a sarcophagus
|
| And stick it in a hippapotamus' oesophagus as if it’s bottomless
|
| I can’t stop it, it’s hopeless armed like an octopus
|
| Hopping off of the top of an acropolis
|
| Popping off above Ptolemy’s populace
|
| With a bronze khopesh and a lot of guts
|
| Plus tell you what I’ll just
|
| Posthumously drop you off at the necropolis
|
| Say ta for the lift
|
| Cleopatra’s a goddess, a prophetess
|
| Don’t even need to ask what the profit is
|
| She’s backed up with actual providence
|
| Even the softest step
|
| Leaves footprints in the sand
|
| Whether you hold coin
|
| Or blade
|
| Or bow within your hand
|
| Even the lightest touch
|
| Leaves traces in the dust
|
| When coins are spent
|
| Bows are broken
|
| Blades decayed to rust
|
| It all starts with one
|
| A single grain of gold
|
| Finally fed up of living every day with pain untold
|
| 'Til every woman, every child, every man
|
| Is a grain of sand sliding through the cracks in the pharoah’s hand
|
| Here I live amid the pyramids
|
| Appearing in a vision, spirited
|
| And near enough as soon as I’ve seen a rib
|
| I stuck a spear in it
|
| It is intimate
|
| It’s been a minute
|
| Since I cut a ligament of an innocent
|
| An uninhibited, illegitimate
|
| Son of the rhythm and instruments
|
| Maybe it’s grandiloquent
|
| To say I haven’t equivalents
|
| But stringing up such intricate linguistics
|
| Is a stimulant
|
| That’ll open my iris
|
| And I’m hoping Osiris finds us
|
| The brotherhood is born, we leave our other form behind us
|
| Julius Caesar truly is eager
|
| To zoom in and be the nubian leader
|
| Maybe he’s doomed to achieve it
|
| A new Egypt soon’ll be breathing
|
| A few more tombs to explore really deep in
|
| Tutankhamun’s seen that you’re thieving
|
| You’re impeding hes sleep, little heathen
|
| So there better be a really good reason
|
| Whereas we never need sleep
|
| Cyrene’s serene enough for us
|
| Every leader succumbs
|
| Even queen Nefertiti’s head becomes a bust
|
| Whereas we never need sleep
|
| Cyrene’s serene enough for us
|
| There’s a deep heat
|
| Sending each and every piece of dust to dust
|
| Even the softest step
|
| Leaves footprints in the sand
|
| Whether you hold coin
|
| Or blade
|
| Or bow within your hand
|
| Even the lightest touch
|
| Leaves traces in the dust
|
| When coins are spent
|
| Bows are broken
|
| Blades decayed to rust |