Soon as you thought it was this saw it was different now
Started using your lips for more than kissing now
Momma I want to sing but momma I want to trick
Momma I’m sucking dicks, it’s time to fuck the system now
This is not red carpet red dress
This is visitation from the priestess
Headdress east coast west ghost greenlit
Run a red light it don’t mean shit
Societal chains
The Bible used on wild to tame
That’s a cage that they make for the child to train
Into a circus monkey
Behind the curtain shit get ugly
Just a perfect dummy, manikin puppet for the money
Hands of the ventriloquist are gambling hungry
Touching the artist’s heart like grizzly to honey
But this is Quiet Storm Queen B shit for you dunny
Like Queensbridge beats channeling sun anonymous
It ain’t about us, ghosts in the song singing
Timeless, Motown bells ringing
This is firefly mason jar nutcrackers from Dykeman
Sharpened my pencil in Central Park
And my blade in Riverside epitomize grit
Real rap shit times a million batshit with the flow
That’s a catalyst to grow
Attitude of change be a shame not to open our hearts

We need shine in these dark times
All these false prophets
Where is the poet?

Get off your soapbox we need the wood for fire
World in so much pain in denial trying to hide it
Complacent goliath giggling maniacally
Machine reign supreme got my dreams in psychiatry
It’s inside out this freedom is actually a prison
Trying to get my seek on
But people too addicted to the screen yawning
Under awning of bodega at dawn
Me and Beat’s said, let’s resurrect the secret
Lost cities raw graffiti on my wall dripping
I hold the seed in my heart baby god given
Guarding it so that the garden can grow
Hyperspace Eden so close and far I don’t know
If we can make it past hate learn the art of the soul
But as long as ya’ll cutting art budgets in schools
We ain’t budging from the Funk keep it muddy as roots
Follow nature only way we gon’ uncover the truth
This ain’t a song motherfucker this is doomsday music
Wake up they pay you to stay down and shut up
Play clown and you stay in your place in your spot
In your race in your box hear the sounds of the cops they coming
Arrested by those you arrest
Killed by the ones you murder
Street poet returns to flesh
Outside the bodega like..

We need shine in these dark times
All these false prophets
Where is the poet?