What is this place?
These men with gold where there words break and they end
Their time keeping nothing but stone and fool gold
Stones worth the weight of ten working class winters
Leading beginners to the skull in their wish
If their was one...
What is this place?
Where greed came into all the mouths
Like empty does the chest
And spoke nothings in the pitch of street
And the worn heart of a hound
Like a dim machine twitching in the chest of potential...
Who will come kill me?
When I call all these men milk made of weak
Fat with numb as they dish dung to the hunger
It is an echo of yourself in this world
That you're hearing
Them yell
Who will come kill me?
Taking their rings off like women
Because I will swear on their weakness
They are the gunned sons of what's done
Latter day knights
Weakened at the bone with the weight of their poor words
A lot of riskless mopes on the turn
Of a coin around in their throats
Lips leaking the poison eating at the honor of rap...
Forcing blood from the cunning of kids
From the future of things
So they are starved for the gristle of meaning
That which can be gnashed between teeth and never ate
Only passed
For real, save the children
So I call them...
I call them lambs to the lion they steal from
And sick my pen on their thinnest of ghosts
And do know they don't wake and take bullets with water like vitamins
No, they sleep hard in a silk thicket
And the cured skin of the scared and spent
And we know they will be but ribs in the dirt...
The sound of their songs gone mud in a landfill
Eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and muds...
And so the young go numb
To the played bones of your weakness
Across the only once of what's done...
Gangster of trifles
Throw out your gold teeth and see how they roll
Licking your wounds in a white kings lap
Falling in love with all guns...
For rappers, there is no hell
There is only fans and
You will go there...
And you will be cut from the cave where your words sour
To the edge of your ears, and then strung...
And then made to move with the grace of what's puppet
Till your cut
From the cave where your words sour
To the soul of son and then fed
Through a fire to the dusk of what's done...
To the absence you grew circa your birth and a death...
Your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud
Jewelry loose on your bones
Like you were on your meaning
You ain't no pharoah you're an aimless error