Lyrics Smoke - Quakers

Smoke

It’s the basement dwelling virgin on the verge of murking those
Who try to rearrange my station, so be staying on your toes
For a swift kiss of death, I section out the mic
With the sceptre in my sight from the microphone stand
It’s all part of commanding the plan
Rearranging the pages and making a name for yourself
In the age of information we’re naked and aimless
Abel and Cain, yet we’re strangers
See a brother make it and hate 'em
Well I’m taking off everything I earn yet you yearn
With the yeast in your chest, deceased
With the breath I’m blessed
Vocal cords so the mic don’t stress
I take a load off the shoulders of the 1−2 check
I’m positive, with skill and the will to consider
I’m rocking gigs from LA to LA
But get me on a telegram and I’ll knock a city in the next day
I think for — ah shit
I think forward like a mortician
The more victims I get the more my sickness is a business
Cause I’m a victim of my words, I feel your hurt
I feel your pain when you get slain by my intoxicated brain
I’m speaking from a chamber of being
Where they pray that my last ounce of sanity remains
They branded me depraved
These verses run hearses through my veins
Leaving splinters in the chamber of age
This ain’t a big move man, I rap in fidgets
Any more than that is nothing short of sort of cataclysmic
I’m the mystic, mister lifted and gifted
I’m sifting my path graphic you know I’m flipping my digits
Getting with it, granted I knew my scripture was written
Like pictures of kids looking in twenty years when they miss it
The bunny ears are encrypted in prime alliance
Feeling my vital signs, making sure our talent was still alive
You feel the vibe, I’m trying to press it
You still decide that the majority is morphing into a killer tribe
Still you be chill, ridden to find a iller guy
Crime and violent heights while he’s talking down at a bitter sky
My God’s fried, Twitter that to your inner eye
Went from crying sinning to twenty year old Gemini
You see the birds stay home, I make the winter fly
South for the summers and LA has gotta recognise
Los Angeles is hotter than the surface
Of the bastard ass son leaving home for the campus
Busting rhythms that make you rupture your pancreas
Your man must enlighten those who writing the bad jokes
The prose, close your eyes cause you’ll be biting the damn dust