My People

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Emcee Graffiti

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I'm a Five-One-Eighties baby, raised in the 90's
Raised in a place where recreation is grimey
Safety is a grace that might increase the face sightings
Of the crazy space pirate baby ladies by I-90
Where a lot of old friends are found face down in a gutter
And the most beautiful women around are single mothers
With that grey toothed stocking cap laugh as a cover
For the paid dues, rocking dead last for their troubles
In the summer everybody wears a bear-skin grin
Not even D.A.R.E. dares swim where the mayor fears sin
I declare Saint Claire's ain't as clear as paint smears
Eight pairs, fake parents care, careless with their kids
It's a parent that I'm living in a barrel full of spit
Like a pharaoh, I'm adorned with a sterile pair of tits
On a chick that'll never bare a sense of any wit
I repent for all the pestilence that present in these scripts, like

And my people are the...
Ones you never hear about unless another albums out
You run your mouth and Tao'll take all of you fuckin cowards out
'Cause the folks I like to lounge around are born to dowse the ground in towns
With alcohol and burn it for the perfect sound
Merchants of the dirty realm, servants from the furnace hell
First to show their courage by dispersing all their current wealth
To start again, raise up from the struggle, just to say they can
You pray amen, I pray a man will prey upon your dearest friends
Peerless with a clan of soldiers, fearless of the damn commotion
Cannon flowin', mannerisms damage any fan or ronin
Panoramic myriad of arrogance, the barrel smokin
Pyramids of emcee skulls illustrate the opus
Dead sea scrolls are open, jottin down the notes I'm quoting
Limitless the, the message never misses like a single woman
Killin kids, like writing all my choruses in sand
My rapport is my remand, kalashnikov is in my hand,  and blam

They say
Dreaming is dead, and no one does it anymore
This waking life is interpreted much like a metaphor
Except for your only guarantee is there's an end to your
Book report, hand it in, n let's review the final score
An "A" in mediocrity, an "F" in helping poverty
A "B" in being boring and my D up in your hotties cheeks
Quite possibly, your odds of survival were not of quality
I'm silently watching my rivals try and revive their weak
Similes and rhyme schemes, the killing fields that I breed
Are thrilling as Dephyant spitting images at high speeds
Military mind meets the reason that you fear the darkness
Peel apart the mirror to reveal the recently departed
Death Note, pen strokes, flesh kept within these compartments
Best known as dead foes, wall paper my brains apartment
Call upon the sacred armor, carving out the way of Dharma
Karma logic monster, Kabballah father of fallen prophets

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