Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit
This troubling advance of half-assed crews crowd these streets
Never mind of who I am, son, just listen when I speak
Broken paragraphs hold wrath of a hundred million deep
Bleak circumstance led masses to only want to dance
A bastard child of Reaganomics posed in a b-boy stance
Make our leaders play minstrel, Left with none to lead our people
How the fuck am I gonna shake your hand, when we never been seen as equals?
Deemed evil by those housed in church steeples
False prophets read backwards from broken tablets to the feeble
I seen you!
Regurgitate their lies I'll bide my time with scrolls and ancient's wine
Heady brew left mark on this hazy scribe
If stars align I suppose even the blind will see
How they stole our last voice, corrupted culture into industry

Few minutes remain
A tame soul wanders wild when it dreams
Mine are filled with ill visions of soot and dope fiends
These slit wrists won't rest till I spill these last drops
Tarnished skin only sin when I awoke on sidewalk

Seen your movements through peripheral
Remain same individual
When a man's viewed as criminal to act animal is logical
Audible tones honed to hold substance
Form sentence
Poor reluctant poet, speak prose
Refuse to beg repentance

Reluctant poet speak prose
Incite our peoples
We got raked through those coals
Once the truth was divulged

Conscience calls thoughts subliminal
Actions all cyclical
Deplorable descendants of men depressed clinical
Answers seem visible when visionless
Useless souls fold under pressure like hands pray to false Jesus

Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly
Anger expressed outwardly
Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC's

Your fictional tales told with conviction
Concise concepts once written
Enter bloodstream since this inks been forbidden

Distorted poet, speak prose
Incite our peoples
We got raked over coals
But the truth's still untold
[scratched]
"They make caricatures out of us!
They make children, children so stupid and backwards!
How is it
This is a war, of survival
Pan-Africanism has yet to fight supremacy
And the only thing that can dismantle white supremacy is Pan-Africanism"

Meaning lost to these zealots
Prefer bullets to ballots
Watch the rich sip from chalice
As these eyes fill with malice
Peasant hands remain callous
As our days retain darkness
I swallow razor blades to keep my vocal cords sharpened

Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture
Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture

These sullen souls misinformed
Storm gates of stronghold
Strange fate that I chose
Morbid poet speak prose

Tattered voices arose
Red Blood written on scroll
Escapes throat an ill flow
For my violence atoned
Modest thoughts monotone
Infant MC's play grown
Found them hung in hallways
From cords on microphones