Coup D'Etat.
Slip into the murky ass world
sewer mass. stir/swirl
stoly dinners as the innocents hurl.
cinema of defects/ fecal lighting bolt
splash the underground clean cut
dipped out into text books
dripping down, baby formula
biters? im looking at ya
like im a change your diapers
that you keep the flow beats
beat your throat minus punchlines about that.
sumthing righteous about that
nostalgia for ciphers nevermind that
like time space did a narrow
zigzag z, zorro on the forehead
solo in the corals on the photos
just sharks and remoras
stunts on fresh waters
sun dont set for us. night crawlers
still impose orders, so the tremors roam the homestate for us.
still they wait for it
ten a time in the telly, blitzed
up till morning to be illuminated
like sum jelly fish
watch the mc get down for the Gs n crown
anything but the truth in the spittin booth (x2)
Sample:
mc, mc help me
mcs done let me down
in one ear n right out the other
think before you write,
or find yourself sold
Kill em with a noble prize
solar vision for the bogus mic holders
that patrol this tradition all over the television,
running with the slogan - slang and a soda.
big mac and a greasy motorola
easy to catch paranoia cause the scene
is over-feindish, seedy runners photo- finish
germophobics do dirt skittish.
at a low point, we at the HUNTS point, doing the next sick joint, while the flow is scenic its the root in it the Proof
making anyone look silly for they petty spitting
this nothing i keep steady feeding
when the hype stops, eyes closed..
im still cyclops, cyclone, coney
island gyro on the board walk, spittin sliced guts/
the whole freakshow head
nod, fixated by bad blood in rented huts
spraying Raid on expensive rugs
this is for the soldiers in a rut from here to Khut
prefer to hear the truth from the spittin booth, out of the drunken mouth,
rather than dummy cute,
we ought to regroup instead of fighting for the petty ass loot
Coup!
D'Etat
(there it is...)
