Yes, yes, here we are again…
Your inner heart, your inner mind
You’re the star that will always shine
Forever you’ll be with me
Uh, it go like…
You ever see the inner depths of a man’s soul?
Or Ninja Turtles pourin out of manholes?
It’s this balance, between a comic and a conscious, that’s the challenge
Between the solitary and the conference that I examines
That I imagine was a figure, would be the start of world peace
and the transformation of niggas
Like the transubstantiation of liquor
But that’s just turnin them into blood
and we’ll be right back where we was
Not a peace-sign, but a fascination with scissors
So I can cut, myself off from the calculations
of empress, empires, and the sinners
For advancement of human suffering and other things
tryin to impede my publishing and editorials
That’s gon’ bring it back to us again
A +Boomerang+ minus Halle Barry and Eddie and everybody fuckin in HA~!
How ’bout that?
Even though independent cars ain’t got one
I got some and more to spare
No more despair, my motor wear don’t match my motivate to mate
Also I drive to stay alive and ride this over there
My momma so mad, so no alcohol in here
I’m Aries Spears on my Jay-Z shit, Affion on the Drake skit
Now how many more can I make with, just one voice?
They might call it fake shit, this some deep shit
It’s my me impersonatin we shit
Vicariously in every rap I speak with
I hope you’re speakin for me, if I’m ever speechless
Cause I’ma be you, even though you’re not here to be with
I hope I see these gangsters actin like teachers
Wake up out they sleep, dare to +Dream+
in a world so Martin Luther King-less, HUH!
How ’bout THAT?
[Outro: Lupe Fiasco]
Yo.. and to my hero Heron, Gil Scott, ya…
In a discourse with Baldwin
on a jet plane with no fear for fallin
But wishin’ it never lands
Reminiscent of the dream time
Presently en route to the rise of the machine time
Magazine times, with coffee more sugar and milk than coffee
Aborted rhymes, rotten beats, and failed hooks
Roads as bumpy as braille books
Fail cools, bad French, and mad push for the door
Gourmet food at the starving soiree
A choice of one easy woman at a time
I’ll take three the hard way
Tryin to be as abstract as possible
And vulgar, the more shocking the more profitable
A baby fed molten gold
and sat upon a pedestal at the mo’ gettin called “24 carat soul”
How to describe this?
Insightful remarks such as the best thing I’ve ever heard was silence
Some more technically impressive
in a faux Spanish romantic hues of a Marxist dialectic
Pleasing to the critics, but pointless to the common passerby
Might as well not even exist, not even a bit
In the event of my demise, give everything I prize to the poor
And to the oppressors, I leave a war
…And so on and so forth