Blasphemous breath remains accurate Context of text lost its core concepts Who speaks our truth? Convicts or prophets? Must maintain logic Who murdered
I saw a man yesterday, Snub-nosed . 38 to temple test his fate And lose. I had the same new balance shoes I wonder what size? City gates long abandoned
I tremble at the thought of what I've become That sorry proud image in puddles leaves me crying rivers These tender words are muted by the stench of
Who you pray to, my God the black God? Who you pray to, my God the brown God? Who you pray to, my God the white God? Your reaction's kind of odd for
What clarity? you must be mistaken. This phrase came with incoherence and portrayed my ragged existence. In fits of paranoia I feel which parts are
They walk a path that's not mine, never was or ever will be. Fulfilling prophecies hobble knees of MC's Set to breath the rich air of mediocrity And
Sat amongst wise kings Indian-style witnessed the birth of the 1st child in exile On banks of Nile. Grew seeds of post destruction Juveniles lack such
With uncertainty i ink my final thoughts on unlit blocks Niggas caught on heron nods Stil at odds with false gods of archaic age. Angelic face wretched
Our slaughter lies in drinking malts and not the porters This ordinary revolutionary lived and fought that modern Malay Mainstay in mainstream, but swam
False facades grin upon my last smile Spit concrete bile, Speak volumes on this child False facades grin upon my last smile Spit concrete bile, Speak
Misunderstood, misguided maniac, Lacking social skills and will to fit your mold. I told your kind before not to expect the world From I who hates the
[ft. Linda Sunblad] There is something in the way You're always somewhere else Feelings have deserted me To a point of no return I don't believe in God
Time: 2:41 Wilojarston Music Publishing ASCAP Master #70063 Recorded 6/20/68 B side with Cotton Fields (The Cotton Song) Bruce Johnston
Swing low, could be the last call for two of us I said swing high, reach out and touch the sky But don't cry yet, it's not time yet See this race is wrong
So we come a long way from the chains and the cane fields A long way from the back o' the bus Shoulda brought along a little map for the travelling Seems
Kicked in his door at 5 A.M. "I've come for my bike" I told the repo man My 920's gonna take me far today You can travel for miles and never leave L.A
Take out all my hair blonde today to change my own retouch Not even learn a joke to tell that makes my pale face blush I'll change the high neck dress
It's your name I hear It's not my head's whid Like the many tears I shed It's your name I call Your name I read My prayer My creed It's your name I hate