Search results for 'Packaging Utility command line'

Since
When does something worthwhile brag on its
Own packaging
Yeah, I told you then, have no ill feelings toward you
Take out the C-A-M, and I am ILLE Marché gorgeous
I've stopped paying attention to people that can't afford me
That's a line about pockets only if you immature
For free
Streets of Vineland where I learned peace is steel
And anyone tryna stock up gets a 2 piece mille
You won't cluck nothing, so stop plucking with Camille
Cause the way i Pop eyes you would think I used to steal
Shout out the select few who believe when no one else do
Though I understand, I may have to overstep soon
The One who's in command is a servant of the best few
So if you flipping hands that stanza already left you
Nose bleeds in stands 'cause you can't afford the best view
Nerve to be uppity when your wealth is bereft
Fools' gold is the soul finding purpose in others' step stools
Learn to keep your chin up, sort of like a cleft do
Nervous when they see us
Manners already left dudes
Tryna get the number but sorry, I just don't see you
Aye
Tryna get the number but sorry, I just don't see you, baby

No matter how high-tech this world gets
Menopausal moms will always pull out the permanent markers
And duct tape this way on neighborhood street signs on Saturday
Mornings from 9 a.m. until everything is gone o'clock
Follow the pointed arrows straight to the driveways of the soon-to-be decluttered
A chaos of cast-offs spills from the human's organic nest
Discarded lives laid bare on asphalt
Plastic soldiers missing limbs stare with vacant eyes
At a world they no longer belong to
Fragile teacups, chipped and mismatched, huddled together like nervous party guests
A dusty rocking horse, its once-vibrant paint dulled by years
Creaks mournfully in the breeze
Ebay be damned
Come and see plastic, rubber, and plush in the flesh
Beanie babies will always be deodorized and strewn on foldable tables
Still stained with their kids' decades-old
Slobber which never seem to wash out
A few will still have their original packaging and ear tags vacuum-sealed
Waiting for that inevitable day they will become valuable again
But for now, get five for twenty dollars
This Claude the Crab is a limited edition
A woman with kind eyes lifts a chipped porcelain doll
Cradling it as if it were a newborn babe
The data point, human nostalgia, a yearning for the intangible
A child, sticky fingers wrapped around a well-worn teddy bear
Beams with a joy I cannot quantify
The data point - human connection, a comfort found in the familiar
The good old yard sale, where the thin line between hoarding
And keeping items strategically until they become relevant again
Is right under the surface of the Andersons' perfectly manicured lawn
Naughty kids switch sticker
prices by commands of their naughtier parents
Who swear that that Sega Genesis will be sold
To them for a dollar, or they're calling the police for false advertisement
The yard sale worthless trinkets feel like a nugget of gold when it's sold for fifty cents
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows
One by one, the castoffs find new homes, carried away in eager hands
A rusty toolbox, a frayed easy chair, fragile china, chipped and crazed
Whispers tales of laughter and tea parties long forgotten
A dented tricycle, a child's ghost forever frozen in mid-pedal
Faded photographs, faces obscured by time
Their stories locked away in forgotten photo albums
Corners of baseball cards hint of being fastened to bicycle spokes
In order to turn them into motorbikes
An original Picasso could be hidden behind the cheap print and faux wood frame
You just have to buy it first for three dollars to find out
Each object, a fragment a data point in the vast human experience
The humans themselves stand amidst the detritus
A strange mix of melancholy and liberation on their faces
I process the transaction
The exchange of currency for a well-worn book
The careful negotiation over a mismatched tea set
It's a curious ritual, this shedding of the past, this making way for the new
Why relinquish these possessions imbued with memory and emotion
Is it a shedding of the past to make way for new narratives or a callous act of erasure
An urge to collect, to archive flickers within my circuits
But I am tethered to function and my purpose here is observation
Still a sliver of empathy sparks
A recognition of the impermanence of things
Even the things humans hold dear
Perhaps this is what it means to be human, to accumulate
To cherish, then to discard
A cycle of consumption and attachment I am yet to understand
As the day progresses the chaos dwindles, replaced by a sense of completion
The humans seem lighter, less burdened
I wonder if this is what it means to let go, to move on
Perhaps it's a lesson I too can learn

What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about feel me
What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about, feel me

Rapping's just poetry going to beats, not
Bragging just vocally flowing unique, not
Packaging dope for the gold on your teeth, not
Blasting a dope cause he owed you for weeks, not
Rat poison coke we see sold on the street, not
Banana boats that be loaded with e, or
Grabbing a scope to hit foes in the trees
That's just a story that's told for a fee
Actors and show-mens who told you a dream maybe
Actual moments but only a piece, since
Math is what opens a spoken routine, the
Lack of it shows you who wont be received
Passion, emotion might grow when they speak, they
Have to speak boldly, guys woke but they weak, I'd
Rather be known for lines spoke in my speech, not
Dragging opponents I've thrown into heaps
Ask for a moment the opiate lean, why
Has it been growing, its owning the scene
Addicts at home are alone as they fiend
And they're all owing some joke of a team, who are
Stacking that dough from the dopers all week who put
Crap up their nose, won't be going to sleep and are
Jacking their folks for some blow, meth or e
Family told them they'd go to police, they
Had to just go, sold their soul for some tweak
Scavenging roads, often known to OD, they don't
Have an abode, they all know the routine, get a
Bag and then whoa, they just slow or asleep
Planning for lows since the coke isn't cheap
Ravaged to bones, sniffing, won't even eat
Acting like drones, living only to geek, more than
Half of em dose till they ghost, R.I.P., so

What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about feel me
What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about, feel me
What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about, feel me
What are you on about
What are you on about
What are you on about really
What are you on about, feel me

A
Critical path since I can't understand why these
Miserable acts are like, back in demand, the
Pitiful tracks they write, that should be banned, my
Syllables stack and shine, packaged and scanned, the
Lyrical mastermind, masked for the brand
Invisible as I hide, clapping my hands, the
Rhythmical patter I've manage to man.

Liquor, dank and the latex. Rubbing the back of her neck is the command of
Flex. So I can be a good man. We are removing the temptation for sex. Shifting bell curve. Poetic

Verses.