Lyrics You Ain't It - Themselves, Lazer Sword

You Ain't It

I’m saying, you ain’t it
You ain’t it
I’m saying
I’m saying, you ain’t it
You ain’t it, I’m saying
If you paint it on long
And rhyme to not wrong
The fawn of all song
A pawned goner to strong…
I would not call you poet
If you tryharditapart
In a guarded bombardment
Of self martyr and garbage…
I will not call you poet
I’d call you farmer
You will not be called by me poet…
These stricken suckas is soft often
And offed goners got in the cough of no cause
Caught in a cauphin the size of a men’s medium
Their pen’s bleeding them
Of anything half-life, all might or believe and then
They’re thrown to the stone sewn dead seed of a leader in them
And the rest is all froze poser and everything opposite sober
Choked joke broker of the lowest common eroder
Of all that’s good in the oven of men
And the evil’s they choose through…
So I’m a catch you in the wind w/or w/out crew
And do rap words to you
Farmer…
I push it previous and meanted at the pink pit In your pensive
And throw it brick to the hid glass of frontmen with
No hand cuffs near this mouth or a doubt in the gum of the gold that I spun
from the wick of a winded and abandoned me…
Abandoned like education in major markets
My sort of artist
Doesn’t think like a banker
Write like a carcass
Dim like the farthest
Light sources.
You poor portraits
Of breathed corpses
With out torches…
You only omen like horsehead
And then in your likeness we’re force fed
Gallons of brag, brief, and retreat over beats
Re-introducing
Advertising and the un-amazing flame with no heat
King brief of think least
His word worth discrete
Scope of effect, petit
And you’re weak weak weak…
You call it pain
I call it painted on
That’s too much pink (?)
I’m saying it’s too much
(You don’t feel it)
I’m saying, you ain’t it
I call it painted on
Are you capable of brave or able only in the stable claw of something
corporation sized
All babel eyed
And vacuum lived…
The cattle’s pride
Bitch in the belly of buy
Terrible merch puppet of major label tom foolery…
Or the easy indie emo born calm cool and free
Who ruin preach in perpetuity
Recycling your michael, Dylan, lennon and oshea’s…
Role-play is a thing of the simple
Jesters beggars and minstrels
You juice it a thimble for fans
Yet gulp gold down by the goblet
On some copshit
Decidedly toxic
Bill whipped giving godless, a bad name…
Another coat of grey on the shame colossus
We got this, above us, beside us, and of us…
A rotting, I hate this fake it and make it, till caked in maggot racket,
you play with its magnet, say it your famished and managed, a half day,
in a bad way and the anthem of pay
It’s tragic
You’re putting the mirror and smoke back in the magic
This is your act right in verse fire, you finna fry on a purse pyre,
unadmired by the ever in lasting…
What is it in song that you’re casting
Any efforts in last straw grasping, or a weakling unmasking
An expensively lit, exhibition in quit, about as two bit
As it isn’t backed by the rich…
So was it you or the script
One never should a, would a trusted their hearts with…
Cut (?)
You’re weak, cous' (?)
Muthafucka you ain’t it
(Weak MCs make me kill kill kill kill)
(Now that’s what it’s all about)
(Yeah)