| You see I’m out of service
|
| I beat the robot til it power surged
|
| And out resurfaced Mozart
|
| In a crowded church
|
| See how I word this
|
| Since our emergence we have bowed to serpents
|
| Insurgents and towers burning
|
| In turn its our hour learning
|
| Shower curtains
|
| Lurking in shadows found my former self
|
| In shallow water born to self
|
| The gallows taught us warn ourselves
|
| So now I’m working
|
| Searching to purge sin
|
| Tilting the urge till earth ends
|
| And we emerge when mirth wins
|
| And our rebirth is certain
|
| The works of hurt men
|
| The purchase and that push
|
| Pen
|
| Pass
|
| The point of no return
|
| How will that bushman last
|
| The oil slowly burned
|
| Into the earn with their ash
|
| Spoiled and churned
|
| Turning this soil to earn cash
|
| The boil of cursed passed
|
| The turmoil that turned these boys to first blast
|
| And ask for the purse after
|
| The work master
|
| That shun God and make gun shots heard
|
| Laughter
|
| Word to the past
|
| The man that looked fast
|
| The hand that shook the world from the earth
|
| When asked
|
| Why the verse sound the way it do
|
| I’m sour an aimed at you
|
| Cowards who deflower
|
| With no power to tame the shrew
|
| Came out and sang a few
|
| Now their paying you in compliments
|
| Consequences swaying your view
|
| Praying for confidence
|
| I’m laying these constant steps by all means
|
| Through withdrawal
|
| Through any width of wall that intervene
|
| The pitfall
|
| The sick of it all know what I mean
|
| As I sit tall
|
| And witness the fall
|
| Of the machine
|
| If you complain no one will listen
|
| If you boast no one will care
|
| Be grateful and thankful
|
| And all will be… — Joseph Medeiros |