The Funky Autopsy

by Myrlin

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about

The first mixtape from Phoenix-based poet and emcee Myrlin Hepworth, released in album format.

credits

released July 3, 2013

Audio Engineer: DJ Foundation. Lyrics: Myrlin Hepworth.

Album artwork: Spring Winders for Verbena Hex. Type & digital packaging: Logan Dirtyverbs.

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license

Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.

about

Myrlin Phoenix, Arizona

Poet, emcee and teaching artist Myrlin Hepworth has written and performed across the United States. In addition to visiting nearly 30 high schools each year, he makes a living with his art by performing at universities, youth centers, group homes, museums, and theaters. Hepworth has competed in 3 National Poetry Slams and coaches the Phoenix team at Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam ... more

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Track Name: Don't Ever Be Lonely
(Chorus)
[The Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose]

Oh, if you have true love
take a tip from a man in misery.

Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.

(Verse One)
I stare upon the wall. . . like “Yo!
Who the dopest of ‘em all?”
I use microphones. . . to break mirrors
screamin’ “Can you hear me?”
cuz I feel all alone in this rush to claim space
where everyone wants a little taste of the stage and the fame.
And they show face
grinnin’ with they gimmicks.
It’s an artificial showcase.
I’m like, “Oh wait,
don’t miss the bus and catch truancy,”
cuz usually these g’s—
well they really ain’t g’s—
wanna be’s—
lookin’ for a string stuck up in a butt crack.
They flow is booty Jack!
About as hardcore as Cinemax booty slaps.
They got mouths built just like a booby traps
that they feet keep on steppin’ in.
Check the method, Kid.
I never said I was the best M-C.
Good enough to spread a little love
and break—free.
Not a Grandmaster but I Flash back
to see what hip hop used to be,
rockin’ a crowd so I don’t feel so lonely.

(Chorus)

[The Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose]

Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.

(Verse Two)
How does the story go?
Wildfire the way the love grow.
Wildfire flares and fades,
comes and goes,
leaves just as quick as it came.
Man, look at me smashed, shattered sick from the pain.
Damn, lost in this lonely bed I still feel her frame.
Got her name stuck, stained on my breath, yep.
We used to hang—
chill and play games—
free styling during sex intermissions.
She knock the beat-box.
I be like, “Check, listen, listen. . . .
When I get you back in the bed
I’ma tongue-touch you girl ‘til you beg.”
She would stop the beat box, pause, like,
“So you wanna see these boots knocked, huh?”
I’m like, “You know, I’m always trying to kick it!”
Exhibit, how we talk-touch for a couple of minutes.
Then we hop-hibbit,
bounce like bunny rabbits back into bed,
laughin’ tell we asthmatic
cuz we back at it again,
and now she’s gone,
and I miss my best friend.

(Chorus)
[The Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose]

Oh, if you have true love
If you have true love.
take a tip from a man in misery.

Oh, if you have true love
If you have true love.
take a tip from a man in misery.

Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Don’t ever be lonely, poor little fool like me.
Track Name: To The Rescue
(Chorus)
[Bob Marley]

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

[Myrlin]
Verse one is for my fam.
Number two is for my fam.
Number three is for my fam
wherever you at to where ever I am.

(Verse One)

Music
can never be just one color or one hue.
When they try to make it all black or white,
man, it feels untrue.

Blue
pours from the rainbow within.
Ever since I was a young kid,
man, I knew I had brown skin.
Running through the hot sun,
little chamaco young blood,
mixed Mogli man cub, I hung
in a small town near a river,
the only brown kid in sight
walking home from school in the winter.
This white kid would throw snow and ice,
the toughest one, man, he stole my bike.
See my Pops came from poor Irish-English whites,
and my mama was Chicana, held it down for La Raza,
and I was proud of who I was
cuz that’s what my Mom and Pops taught us:
soy mestizo, poquito gringo, man, I’m good people.


[Bob Marley]

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?


(Verse Two)

To the rescue it came,
the music my Mom played
back in the day, hidin’ out from the pain.
Temptations, Sly and the Family Stone,
Etta James, Marvin Gaye, and Nina Simone.
Hector Laboe to Pedro Infante, adelante!
We work hard in the yard on Saturday,
Lola Beltran and Bob Marley pumpin’ loud from my front lawn.

The neighbors watch and the neighbors pause
like, “Who sung that song?”
until my mom hit skip track,
hit em with that “Volver.”
Give the white neighbors heart attacks.
They go, “Yappity-yap. I can’t listen to that Spanish crap.”
Up in they houses like, “Where’s my Willie Nelson at?”

And my momma got Nelson, too,
but would rather move to
Ray-Bob-Charles-Marley
chopin’ Country, grass, and Roots!

(Chorus)
[Bob Marley]

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

(Verse Three)

At my window I heard the first three hit the glass.
Splat, I trembled. Woke up, eggs drippin’.
White boys in the truck straight dippin.
I remember how I found the words written,
Beaner. Die. Wetback. Spic.
All over my car, they wrote that shit.
At the dance, they wanna break my back with a brick
cuz all the white girls liked the way I was freakin it.

It went black!
Crash when they smashed my head
on the black top like a bat on the asphalt!

Woozy. . .
I woke up re-arranged in a Tupac lyric
like Bob Marley “used to sing to me,
had me feeling like” free “was the thing to be.”
Some say, ‘The blacker the eye, then the deeper the bruise.’
I say, ‘The sweeter pain, then the deeper the blues.’

[Bob Marley]

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

To the rescue, here I am.
Want you to know ya’ll.
Can you understand?

In the morning
ya’ll know the rainbow.
Want you to know, I’m a rainbow, too.

In the morning
ya’ll know the rainbow.
Want you to know, I’m a rainbow, too.
Track Name: Arizona I Love You But…
(Verse One)

Monday morning sun pushin’ on my back.
Phoenix, hot, like a piece of bacon fat.
That’s a fact. Off to work, man.

You know the deal:
pavement hot enough you could cook a good meal

on top of the side walk
where the men talk. They talk
and the fiends go score they rock
where massive battles are fought.
Lessons are taught with a roc and a gunshot.
The chaos don’t stop.

Kids who can barley read
tag graffiti on they block like, “Yo, that’s me.”
Lookin’ at the future like a body
in a casket of broken dreams.
I show my love with poetry.

And my students speak
like they got bullets stuck in they teeth,
holdin’ pens like latch keys.
I tell the class:
“Strike the pen on the pad
like a match.” Please
watch the light in their eyes keeps hatching.
(keeps hatching)


(Chorus)

(I love you. I love you.
But you’re bringing me down)
Hey!

(I love you. I love you.)
My people say
(But you’re bringing me down)
Hey!


Arizona, I love you!
(I love you.)
But you keep bringing me. . . down.

Arizona, I love you.
Arizona, I love you.

[This verse is for the victims of SB-1070
And the ban on Ethnic Studies]

(Verse Two)

I can’t stand how they complain about identity theft.
Now they wanna ban ethnic studies in the same breath.

“Listen, little man.
This is how they call you a crook.
First flip through that history book.
Funny how so few faces belong to Black, Brown, Latinos, and Asians.
Reflections? Mug shots on the evening news
demonize people of color, create fear,
remove the truth.

This is how they book ya.
They write laws in the books,
make money for the prisons,
write more laws in the books,
raid your house and your mom gets took.
You booked out the back window,
but he caught you by the back pack,
so you threw a left hook.
Now you in a cell
readin’ all kinds of books.


(Chorus)

(I love you. I love you.)
My people say
(But you’re bringing me down)
Hey!

(I love you. I love you.)
My people say
(But you’re bringing me down.)
Hey!

Arizona, I hate you!
(I love you.)
Cuz you keep bringing me. . . down.

Arizona, I love you.
Arizona, I hate you.

Arizona, I love you.

Arizona I. . .
Arizona I-I-I. . .

(Verse Three)

At a church in the barrio
everyone holds hands and rosarios.
They say
prayers for the people who were taken away
in broad daylight.
Babies cry for mothers. It ain’t right
how they make scapegoats from the hard workin’ folk.
Man, it ain’t no joke.

I know
a ton of kids who were born across the line,
been livin’ in the states since the age of five.
America sits cold in their eyes. Study time:

watch
how they grow and they shine
through high school.
Their parents pay rent
cleaning hotel rooms.

Kids named Erika, Dulce, Silvia, Lupe,
trying to go to college,
but they’re turned away cuz they can’t pay,
and The Lawman says, “No Financial Aid!”

(Chorus)

(I love you. I love you.)
My people say
(But you’re bringing me down.)
Hey!

(I love you. I love you.)
My people say
(But you’re bringing me down.)
Hey!

And the people say!
(I love you.)
“Lawman, I’ve been here since 1st grade!

And I pay everyday with my pain.
And I pay everyday with my pain.

Since the first grade
and the second grade
and the third grade
and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth grade
and the seventh grade
and the eighth grade
and the ninth grade
and the tenth grade
and the eleventh grade—
man, I graduated in this state!

And I pay everyday with my pain.
And I pay everyday with my pain.”

Say, “Pass the Dream Act.”
(Pass the Dream Act.)
Say, “Pass the Dream Act.”
(Pass the Dream Act.)
Say, “Pass The Dream Act.”
(Pass the Dream Act.)

Say, “No! No!”
(No! No!)
“No! No!”
(No! No!)
SB 1070 Say-say-say-say, “No! No!”
(No! No!)

Ban on ethnic studies.

Say-say-say “No! No!”
(No! No!)

Arizona, Te Quiero.
Pero como me aguitas.
Track Name: Dillatroit
Ayo, I never been to Dillatroit.
It get gritty in my city. Kids learn to point
Smith and Wessons steppin’ to the grave or to the joint.
Wish they knew about that Dilla, boy.
(that Dilla boy)

Ayo, I never been to Dillatroit.
It get gritty in my city. Kids learn to point
Smith and Wessons steppin’ to the grave or to the joint.
Wish they knew about that Dilla, boy.
(Yeah)

Wish they knew about that Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla J/J Dilla Dilla Dilla Dilla J/J Dilla…Dilla/Dilla/
Track Name: Teach 'Em How to Cypher
Scene 1: Oakland, California

Now listen:
this is the truth.
The same people who build prisons
build high schools.

Somethin’ bout how the clouds move out in Oakland.
Somethin’ bout a pale sky next to the ocean.

Man, I’m not jokin’. Hey, I’m not kiddin’.
The school that I visited was built like San Quentin.

Listen, how can you ask these kids to dream
inside a building built like a penitentiary?

Look at the little homies rappin’ bars
at the lunch table, talkin’ bout them flashy cars
cuz they grew up in the projects,
and that main stream hip hop be fuckin’ with they conscience.
All the flashy glits tell the ghetto kids they ain’t got shit,
so they die tryin’ to get so rich.
The images they get: the whips and Bloods and Crips
and Wayne make it rain.
Everybody runnin’ for a buck
trying to escape the pain,
and the people in the muck get tossed away, hey.

(Chorus)

If I could, man, I’d teach em’ how to cypher,
teach em’ how to cypher, teach em’ how to cypher, hey.

If I could, man, I’d teach em’ how to cypher,
teach em’ how to cypher, teach em’ how to cypher, hey, hey, hey.

Scene 2: LUNA

Bienvenidos a La Finiquera.
Class is in session. Check the method.
We cypher in the sunlight.

LUNA steps to the mic. She says,

“Watch me summarize my life as I count to five.

One. I was SIX when my father took his own life.

Two. I used those SEVEN dollars he gave me back in the day
to buy balloons and place them on his grave after school.

Three. It was grade EIGHT when I sold my first little bit of cocaine, hey.

Four. I hate locked doors. By age NINE I survived the hands of a strange man NINE times while my mother went blind with a bottle. I forgot how ta. . . cry.

Five. By age TEN I lit the candle
for La Virgen en mi Mama’s casita.
My Mommy tried to teach me to be a good little hija.

I was taught to hold lipstick, that my purpose was to find a man
while my Momma got her lip split
by a man with lip stick on the back of his bloody hand.


I’m at the bus stop tryin’ to catch a ride:
stupid motherfucker yellin’ at me that I got
fat titties and a nice behind,
and they tell me ‘don’t be angry
naw, just act like a lady,
keep quiet, clean house, make babies,
so when I speak they expect me to be fuckin’ crazy.’

No matter what they say, I’ma find my way.
No matter what they do, I’ma sing my blues.
With these two hands
I’ma make the world beautiful.”

(“beautiful” repeats)


Scene 3: LITTLE MIKE

Bienvenidos a La Finiquera. Class is in session.
Check the method. We cypher in the sunlight.

LITTLE MIKE got a daddy done time,
skipped last class to sell a dime.

LUNA says, “Come on, LITTLE MIKE, give it a try.
Just spit that shit.”

So he spit that shit. He say,

“Sometimes I wanna say ‘fuck the world’ cuz I don’t understand it
enough.
I guess I would be lying it I told you I was out a touch.

I done touched the weight of a 9mm.
Seen my mother’s life pass in front of my eyes.
The cancer got her when I was like five.
Been angry at God for like my whole life.”

“Now LUNA
I heard the poem you read the other day after school.
Made me wonder why I treat women the way that I do.

“I was raised by my uncle and this drunk fool
told me, ‘Never let a smart girl love you.
Never allow yourself to love one of them.
Men and women ain’t friends.
Bitches were born to be bitches, and bitches destroy good men.’

“I know that word offends.
I mean no disrespect,
but all this shit is stuck in my head.
Many nights before bed I prayed for my life and pain to end.

“I guess it’s fucked up
how we love our mothers but hate our baby mothers
and sisters and wonder what’s wrong with the world we livin’ in.
Thinkin’ bout my momma make me feel like
she lookin’ down on me again.
Lord take away my sins.”

“No matter what they say, I’ma find my way.
No matter what they do, I’ma sing my blues.
With these two hands,
I’ma make the world beautiful.”

(chorus repeats)


END.

Yogi Freestyle Interlude
[Yolanda]
My name is Yolanda.
Got Chucks on my feet.
Gilbert’s bed is my seat.
Lookin’ at Def Poets society.
My rap is tight. I got variety.
Lookin’ at Mr. Bush holdin’ that camera.
Heat like magician, abracadabra.
Lookin’ at Myrlin
hit that beat box.
Look at him.
Look at him.
Look at them dirty ass socks!
Track Name: The Proletariat Speaks, “Wibbidy Wabbidy”
(Verse One)

My cash flow is so. . .
Wibbidy-wabbity like my wallet is toppling,
falling like meteors cometing, commenting
like yo, I’m that kid in Monopoly locked in a cell.
I’m always going, clickity-clackity, bibbity-bobbity,
pleading and bargaining, running and bartering.
They hate how I talk, but they love how I’m jargoning.
I live
fresh in this mud, and I hope to be blossoming, but
I don’t
got no people in Washington constantly lobbying on my behalf
in this crooked economy where my wallet is toppling like a victim of prejudiced policy.
I’m so
Wibbidy-wabbity in this game of Monopoly.
Follow me
cuz I’m constantly hollering,
but the boss man ain’t bothering
hearing me, seeing me. It’s clear that he’s fearing me
in the back of the bar, by the cars in his limousine,
like the smile in my mouth is the swing of a guillotine,
so I
plead and I plea
so wearily, carefully, but he ain’t carin.’
His face is so grimacing, nodding not arguing, hardly acknowledging,
when I say, “Excuse me, Sir Louie, please pardon me,
but I got cats in my neighborhood with Uzi’s that the young ones
be following. I got holes in my pockets. I think they are hollowing.”
But he can’t see my pain or the pride I be swallowing,
so I tell him so vividly, viciously, honestly with a few lines of my comedy
like, “Yo, I’m the starving son Adam Smith, bro’,
but don’t forget your wife loves the way a Gardener works, a ha?!

But all he heard was . . .

“Wibbidy-Wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha what.”

“Wibbidy-Wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha what.”

You got a late rent bill? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
Throw your hands up.
You snuck in the party tonight? You better stand up.
You better stand up.
You got no dollar bills? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
Throw your hands up.

Yeah. . .
Cuz I’m constantly hollering,
but the boss man ain’t bothering.

Hearing me, seeing me, it’s clear that he’s fearing me. In the back of the bar, by the cars in his limousine, like the smile in my mouth is the swing of a guillotine. So I
plead and I plea, so wearily, carefully, but he ain’t carin.’
His face is so grimacing,

nodding not arguing, hardly acknowledging,
when I say, “Excuse me, Sir Louie, please pardon me,
but I got cats in my neighborhood with Uzi’s that the young ones be following.
I got holes in my pockets, man, I think they are hollowing.”
But
he can’t see my pain or the pride I be swallowing, so
I tell him so vividly, viciously, honestly with a few lines of my comedy
Like, “Yo, hey,
I’m the starving son of Adam Smith, bro’,
but don’t forget your wife loves the way a Gardener works a… ?!”

But all he heard was. . .
“Wibbidy-wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what.”

“Wibbidy-wabbidy, wabbidy wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha.”

You got a late rent bill? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
You got no dollar bills? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
You snuck in the party tonight? You better stand up.
You better stand up.

Cuz my cashflow is so
Wibbidy-wabbity
like my wallet is toppling ha.
Track Name: Mixaca’s Alter Ego Walks The Blvd.
Mixaca got the meanest walk,
pops her gum every time she talk.
Lips smack—pop!—in sequence gloss.
Skin like butta so smooth and soft,
much more tone than an ashy Roth,
much more thicker than a Laura Croft.
Hot lava drop like a Venus rock, fell to earth, burned up the block.
She walk, passin’ everybody, with no time to talk.
Dudes with their ladies actin’ nonchalant,
tryin’ to pass it off when they tryin’ to watch.
Ha!
Better pause, Little Mocoso,
better know, bro’: it ain’t cool to gawk.
That’s a no-no. Better stop Tonto, better knock it off
or off your block she will knock.
Clock-clock your dome with a brick.
Mace in your nose, blind as spit,
take you down with the hip,
lay you in the grass where you groan and spit,
“Uncle/tio,” ‘til you call it quits.
Fits in the yard by the bus stop.
People watch,
then they call the cops.
She got a walk so mean with a look
so cross that if Jesus saw
he’d run . . .
straight to the Mosque!

Ha ha ha ha ha HaHa!
Track Name: Germination 2.0: Roots, Seeds, and a Chestnutt
I met you on a Sunday down by the bus stop.
You was nodding your head to Black Thought.
Said The Roots was your favorite group.
How could I not fall in love with you?
Right then YOU GOT ME like Erykah Badu.
Made my body weak just like a fresh bruise—I
lost all the air in my lungs. Nowhere to run.
You made my heart beat like drums from Quest Love.
Jazz lit up my ears like Holiday Billie.
Asked you “Where you from?” Said “Pennsylvania Philly.”
Said Philly once had your heart
but things get rough and THINGS FALL APART
and that’s just the way it goes.
Everything’s got a TIPPING POINT. This, we know.
Came to Arizona just to escape the snow.
Told me you studied psychology.
Made a joke like, “Don’t you mean PHRENOLOGY?”
Then you pulled out that red ink pen,
wrote your name and number right across my forehead,
Like man

Black Thought: “And the world fienda know my name.”

(So, this girl writes on my forehead on the bus,
and first of all, I don’t know what she wrote.
You know what I’m sayin? So like one of the dudes on the bus
is tellin’ me, like, “Ah she wrote, you know, ‘You’re an idiot,’”
and then someone else is like, “No, that’s actually her number,”
you know, so,
but I’m in sunny Arizona, so I started sweatin’ that number off my head,
you know, so the 7 turns into like an 8 and like . . . the 6 is like half way erased
so it looks like a 0.
So I call like the wrong number like 6 times, Homie, and then finally, you know,
finally, you know, I hook it up, and then I go to the crib.

(Chorus)

[Cody Chestnutt]
I push my seed in her bush for life.
Its gonna work because I’m pushin’ it right.
If Mary drop my baby girl tonight.
I would name her rock and roll.

(Verse Two)

Came to ya crib, felt like I stepped in THE WEB.
Record collection scattered on the bed.

Tellin me how you rough Philly stylin’,
smoke in your city keep RISING DOWN.
You moved your hands all around,
singin’ out loud, mimicking bass, strings and keys,
pretendin’ to be Kamal Gray,
Ben Kenney, Lenny Hubbard.
Now you in the kitchen reachin’ in cupboard
for some honey and butter.
I muttered, “Oh, brother”
when the honey stuck to your KNUCKLES
I say “F”
cuz your body makes my knees buckle.

Slicen’ holes in my GAME THEORY
I’m holding a bowl of fruit.
You like, “Really? Pretty boys aint got no juice.
Actin’ all cute when they really tryin’ to tell their boys HOW they GOT OVER.”
Told me, “Baby, baby, stay sober. I don’t wanna wake up to a cold shoulder.”

“Girl make a rollin’ stone wanna be boulder,” I told her.

(Chorus)

[Cody Chestnutt]

I push my seed in her bush for life
It’s gonna work because I’m pushin’ it right
If Mary drop my baby girl tonight
I would name her Rock and Roll.


(Verse Three)

Passion made it a RAW roll of the DICE.
We admit that we grip for life.
I COME ALIVE when I come inside
your house. In the kitchen, in the air, on the couch

the music settles on the mattress where we make match sticks
from our fingertips, and the fact is
that we cool like a flame when the aftermath hits.

I beat box like Rahzel Fantastic.

Baby for really, you got soul like Jilly from Philly
if you’re willing,
Girl, ya know, I B Malik‘in freakin’ every weekend.
It’s my heart’s work.

Told me love ain’t shit but a blood sport.

Baby daughter, baby son can’t be UNDUN.
You got fam from them Philly slums,
some who ran wild at the track yard,
slangin’ crack on the corner trying to track the stars,
place where the Captain Kirk’s put the gat, the scratch, the graph to work.
Nine months roll by. No lie I will cry
if you drop my baby girl tonight
cuz you know she got them Chestnutt eyes.

(Chorus)

[Cody Chestnut]

I don’t beg for no rich man.
And I don’t scream and kick when his shit don’t fall in my hands man
Cuz I know how to steal
I’ve had a thousand lovers against my lover’s will
I lick the opposition cuz she don’t take no pill
Oh dear
You’ll be keepin’ my legend alive

I push my seed in her bush for life
Its gonna work because I’m pushin’ it right
If Mary drop my baby girl tonight
I would name her Rock and Roll.
Oh Break it down.

I push my seed somewhere deep in her chest
I’ll push it naked cuz I’m takin’ my test
Delivering Mary it don’t matter the sex
I’m gonna name it rock and roll.

I push my seed in her bush for life
Its gonna work because I’m pushin’ it right
If Mary drop my baby girl tonight
I would name her Rock and Roll.

I would name her Rock and Roll
I would name her Rock and Roll
I would name her Rock and Roll (oh yeah)
I would name it Rock and Roll.
Track Name: People
(Chorus)

They keep tellin’ me my people
really wanna sing my song.
But I’m like yo, my people,
I really wanna sing your song.

(Verse One)

I know this dude named Mack.
He wake up in the mornin’, pack a bull, strike a match.

Play that scratch: Talib Kweli,
Blue Scholars, and a little Ozomatli.

Yeah, he got implicated a couple years back in a robbery.
Now he can’t find a job moppin’ the floor in the lobby.

Know this girl name Stacey.
Ride the bus home after work at Macy’s.

Frankly, she’s got a whole lot of love,
but doesn’t know where to give it.
Waitin’ on the one.
Patience has it limits.

Vivid
how Mack and Stacey
be mackin’ outside the party crazy.
Bicardi lust-love drunk.
Outkast “Rosa Parks” on bumps.
Now say what?

You know, they hooked up for like three months.
Honeymoon phase can’t last.
Now they wonderin,’ what they really have.

(damn)

(Chorus)

They keep tellin’ me my people
really wanna sing my song,
but I’m like yo my people hey,
I really wanna sing your song.

And they tellin’ me we equal

I’m like why, wha, why you lockin’ up these people?

(Verse Two)

Spark the leño.
Check my cuento about a man named Beto.

El viejo crossed the border like a hundred times
just to work in hard and provide para familia.

Last night on the drive,
traffic light, blind side,
hit by a semi.
In the hospital, Beto’s wife—dies.

Beto lonely, singing, “Oh why?”

The lobby gets crazy.
Some busy body lady, some busy body doc,
look at Beto’s paper work, and they start to talk.

No green card. No visa.
Aye mira, mira: anonymous call to La Migra.

Lagrimas pour down Beto’s cheeks
while some busy body lady calls the police.

Like “Hurry, come soon.
We got an illegal in room 2-oh-6.

He doesn’t speak English.”


(Chorus)

Can’t loose faith in the People,
but the system is evil.

And when you’re lookin’ at the hard things
Remind yourself that
people do beautiful things,
people do beautiful things,
people do beautiful things,
people do beautiful, crazy, ugly, ugly, crazy, beautiful things.


(Verse Three)

Now Mack and Stacey ‘bout to have a baby,
but they ain’t ready
to become Baby Momma Stacey
or Baby Daddy Mac, that’s a fact.

Yo, Play that Scratch: “waa waa wa wa waa.”

Now,
Betos weepin’ while INS is creepin’,
singing corridos like the Mexican Blues.
Sheriff’s outside ready to sweep the hopsital room like a broom.

Oh oh oh

The door opens, he sees a white coat
doctor walkin’ towards his bed with a stethoscope

sayin’ “Hurry, please. We got to go.
Aburrase por favor ven conmigo.”

yeah

Lady doctor, raised in Phoenix proper.
Modern Harriet Tubman, no frontin’.
She got parents from Jalisco.

Aye, Dios mio!
She sneaks Beto out the back in a body bag.
Now he prays for his hijos.
Track Name: Mixaca: Bedroom Eyes
(Chorus)

[Natty]
Step out from work, two missed calls, private number but I know it’s her.
So I call her right back ask ‘what time are you coming over?’
Turns up with mine, half nine, never on time, lookin’ oh so so fine.

(Verse One)

Girl, there ain’t no perfect pictures.
I remember my light flickered
as you whispered to me.

Memory is a fading thing.
What a dream we used to keep
between you and me.
Now I’m loosin’ sleep,
wakin’ up chasin’ ghosts in my bed sheets.
I can hear you speak when I reach to touch everything again. Oh-oh.
The memories don’t slow.
Who know where this song goin’ travel and echo?
How can I let go
when I’m stuck on the same road?

I remember when you drove me home
and I watched you glow
like a flame that would guide me on.
I rock and I roam with these shaky bones.

Your skin is code imprinted on my fingertips.

The life we live
is a handful of instances,
but the life of a song can be infinite

if the ink be the tears, and the beat be the kiss.
When your voice in my ears
falls from my lips
gives birth to the lyric I spit.
Word to earth that I love you.

(Chorus)

[Natty]
Step out from work, two missed calls, private number but I know it’s her.
So I call her right back ask ‘what time are you coming over?’
Turns up with mine, half nine, never on time, lookin’ oh so so fine.

(Verse Two)

That night on the balcony
when you stared at me, I knew It was the real thing.
Standing there feeling like a misfit,
told me a story about a girl whose mind eclipses,
flashes like lightening off in the distance,
said listen.
Everyone told her to stop acting,
but the lightening kept flashing.
Black outs at school. Kids couldn’t accept it.
Beautiful girl with a mind so electric,
tears on her face when she looked up the word epileptic.

Little Michouacana,
for short you called her Mixaca.
She hopped la frontera como una rana,
separated from her momma.
Nine years old knockin’ on her mother’s door.
Sixteen when she self-diagnosed.
Now she college grown,
sayin it ain’t no stigma,
just a beautiful, painful enigma.

Mixaca, your body’s cove
the sea I roamed the day we relapsed
and you came back home.
Waves crashed like a flashback in my eyelash.
Hope you know that I love you.

(Chorus)

[Natty]
Step out from work, two missed calls, private number but I know it’s her.
So I call her right back ask ‘what time are you coming over?’
Turns up with mine, half nine, never on time, lookin’ oh so so fine.

(Verse Three)

I’m just a poet trying to paint lightening in my brush strokes
bright enough to guide these shaky bones back home.

Each time that you held me close,
we met lip to lip and cheek to nose,
which led hips to hips to grind and fold,
my hands on your waist,
like I never wanna let go.
The love we made
each day
was incredible.
Oh, who know where this road gonna go
but I gotta go: new stage, new show.
In world of shade lookin’ for the sun, tryin to grow.

And I know your soul.
What a beautiful thing to behold
magnetic, we kinetic
even on our own.

You, I believe in you. I believe in you.
I thank you.
I think of you when I watch the moon,

It’s lunacy.
Trying to feel you breathe.
Some things don’t fade for me.

The scent of your hair
in the rain in November.
If the flame fade, I will remember.
No matter the weather, I’m an ember
forever. I love you.

(Chorus)

[Natty]
Step out from work, two missed calls, private number but I know it’s her.
So I call her right back ask ‘what time are you coming over?’
Turns up with mine, half nine, never on time, lookin’ oh so so fine.

So fine. . .
So fine. . .
So fine. . .
So fine. . .
So fine. . .
Track Name: The Funky Autopsy
I’m lyrically fantastic.
Make your head bob like bombastic.
Tappin’ on your brain like a nail in a casket,
I loose you quick like a little yellow basket.
A tisket, a taskit. Ella or Larry?
No, you didn’t catch it.
Re: listen. Let your eyes turn to matches.
I call you Gerald and I give you the Fitz.
Strike you down with the lyricist wit. I don’t quit.
Focus
on the allusions in my magic. It’s madness
trying to survive like “The Hatchet”
cuz my heart keeps on Paulsen. Check your pulse, son, cuz I keep the pun on my tongue.

Hip Hop colors my mouth like the blues.
The shade of my voice, you couldn’t measure the hue.
Shit, I pitty the fool tryin’ to place me in a box.
I’m real hip hop.
They puppets like Lamb Chop.

Blaow! like a gunshot.
I make em’ shake like a uvula.
I be absuin’ yah.
My rhymes bring confusion with contusions.
If I’m loosin’ yah, check your bruises, uh.
Pain can be intangible.
Strange how I handle my mandible.
Burst flame like the candle glow.
Switch flow like Flat top to Afro.
I’m packin’ ammo.

I run shit
like laxatives through your assholes.
Metaphors and similes—they never play bashful.
I could give a shit about your cashflow
cuz I put in work like a backho.

Now what I’m gettin’ at, my pal,
is that wealth
can never be truly physic-cal,
so while you play fis-cal
I be the pure individual stretchin’ my sylla-bow-owles.

Break down, like my name was James Brown.
This be the big payback
but I be Brown and Proud.
I be quiet and loud.
This is my stompin’ ground.
I’m shakin’ grassy roots just like a powwow now.

Call me the fancy dancer.
Smooth-tongue-talkin’-hip hop romancer—ill enough they call me cancer.
The enzymes in my rhymes bind time like DNA enhancers.
I go bone deep like radiology.
Your jaw’s too weak to bite a line.
You’ll loose your teeth
tryin’ to b-boy pose and freeze
on the X-rays of my ideology.
Callin’ “Olly-Olly oxen free”
cuz they can’t see me.
I infect them with the funk like an STD.

The juggernaut that the tanks couldn’t stop.
Product of the bullets that the sniper done dropped
and lost. Misshot from smooth barrels that banged or popped.
Before the Bigs, before the Pacs, I trace my lineage to the blood drops
Drippin’ down the baton of the dirty cop.

From every barrio to city block,
from every pueblo and farm house,
where pain grows like bean stocks.
Jack be nimble, now Jack be quick.
Jack’s cow got jacked by the IRS: now ain’t that some shit.
So be blasted back at the establishment.
Whether up in the ring or On The Road, he battled with the candlestick.
Now the same flame flickers from my lips.
Spittin’ frijoles fuegos ‘til they call me “Spic.”

So funky give your face a lift.
So funky give your face a lift.
I’m bending time like some matrix shit.
Watch how I unstitch a fake persona quick.
My pen and pad is a scalpel kit.
Call me The Alchemist,
turnin’ water into wine like a magic trick,
line after line, blow minds like pink mist,
the funky mystic misfit, born from the break of the drum kick,
born from Santana riffs,
and Jimi Hendrix licks,
you better call it quits, cuz you ignorant,
you limited,
I’m rivitin’.
Watch how I pummel the mumbles of these Barney Rubbles cuz they so primitive.

And I’m funky
like James Brown with a little bit of Bun B,
funky like Miles, Gil Scott, Janis Joplin jumpin’,
Lady Day, Blues Junkies bumpin’
in the trunk of a caddy with a bass that’s thumpin’.
I’m the Jack O’ Lightening in yo pumpkins,
Middle America, City Slicker to Country Bumpkin,
I’m the mixed blood mestizo, strugglin’, hustlin’
dead-dream shovelin’,
hip hop’s foster son,
bruised lip mumblin’,
rugged genius,
good will hunting,
pride like a boulder,
chipped shoulder,
Kanye combustion,
Ali-to-Sonny Liston head crushin’
floatin’ like a honey bee rumbling.


I hold pen and mic like knife.
I write precise
like a surgeon incisioning
time, split, space, splintering, pivoting, envisioning the day
of my Funky Autopsy.
Cold body.
They will open me up,
dig past the muscle and mush,
hope to retrieve broken particles of records in my guts,
use lazars to extract the flavor from my tongue,
plug speakers into my lungs,
pump and press to recreate the freshness of my breath,
search for drum kits beneath my chest,
guitar strings ligaments holding bones,
piano keys in my fingers and toes,
ink in my veins and bones.
They will think
to cut my heart free,
toss it on the turntable and remix my. . .
(hear beat)
but all there will be is the fresh scent of dead flesh. Funk. . .


[Biggie Smalls]
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.

I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
Track Name: Cosmic, The Funky Love Ballad
12. Cosmic

(Chorus)
[Frank Sinatra]
Fly me to the moon.
Let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

(Verse One)

I was a cute preschool kid, getting’ kisses on my cheek
before I grew to be a high school fool, foolin’ around in the back seat.
At 22 I broke free from the wild cat 's teeth
to find a place to reach for Love Over Lust,
and I found both the first time we touched,
so much trust in the rush
cuz our love was so unique.
(Chorus)
[Frank Sinatra]

Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
(Verse Two)
Male lions fight for the right to spread their seed,
seeds, the female protects and feeds.
Peacocks select a male with the best genes.
Ladies pounce on a man that can meet they needs.
Men use poetry, SUVs, and designer jeans to scheme.
When you hear the meows in the background,
just be proud, cuz you know now that
everytime I hold you close I can’t let go.
Addiction.
Hey, I can't let go.
Every time I hold you close, I can't let go 'oh 'oh 'oh.
Humans see beauty, wanna claim it as their own.
Flowers in the dirt, can’t leave them alone.
We met when
we were barley grown.
Love ain’t a word to own, but a word to give.
It takes shade to grow and pain to live.
The sum of your love
is inside my bones.
Keeps these legs runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin' runnin' back to
YOU
Locked your bike up the month we broke up.
Someone stole your seat while we fell asleep.
It was there for weeks.
It made me think of your physique.
YOU
can’t hide those true brown eyes
underneath that midnight sky.
Mumbling a Humphrey Bogart line
I dream of a casa blanca.
(Chorus)
[Frank Sinatra]

Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
In other words please be true.
In other words I love
(Verse Three)
YOU
Got that classic style,
type of grace to make my momma smile.
YOU
love like quicksand, your lips and
charm, girl, god damn!
YOU
know I gotta roam this open road
to build a home for me and
YOU
Know the possessed are possessed
by the things they own.
You know its complex, but it’s TRUE.
YOU
used to groove in grade school, gettin’ funky on the trombone.
When you feel all alone,
like I’m too far away and your arms too short to reach the right note.
Know that YOU
control the blues of my heart beat,
cross fade with the memories in a symphony of joy and grief.
Star glow seeps in the space where we meet.
Stars aren’t made from big screens.
Nope.
It takes years of light to receive the night above you and me.
I use the mic to recite and weave
this story of the heart.
Love is the greatest art
and I love YOU!
Track Name: Tú Sabes Poplar Trees
(Verse One)

Tú sabes how la fruta swings in the southern breeze,
black bodies in the popular trees.
Y tú sabes how they never teach
about Chicanos and Chinese who swung like fruit in the western breeze.
Lord, please, brown bodies swingin’ in the cottonwood trees.

Yes, yes, south-
west slavery was
catch, scalp, deliver.

Hopi, Pueblos, Denes, Apaches sold down river

all the way to Haiti
where black bodies
sang, and they chopped sugar cane like timber.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha

(Verse Two)

Tú sabes how la chota stings in the city breeze,
black bodies on the hot concrete.
Y tú sabes how they never teach
about Chicanos and Natives who got jacked up by the punk police.
Lord, please, brown bodies on them ghetto streets.

Yes, yes, immigrant slavery

is pick up, hire, deliver.
Work real hard, no pay, job’s done, get sent down river

all the way to TJ (Tijuana)
where the brown bodies sell slaves
and chop sugar cane like-like-like-like-like timber.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, tú sabes!
Ha, ha, ha, ha

(Verse Three)

Ya’ll know how that noose knot swings in the American trees.
Willie Lynch writes them policies.
Ya’ll know how barrio speaks
when black and brown point gats at the other have and then they squeeze.
Ain’t no unity. Colored boys on them ghetto streets.
Economic slavery.
D-boy slangs dope.
Momma broke, ain’t got no hope,
so the po-po knock and the foe pop-pop, and the boy body drop, float down river

all the way to DC
where the white collars holler stock
and chop sugar cane like-like-like timber.

[Nina Simone]
Birds flyin’ high, you know how I feel, Sun in the sky, you know how I feel. Breeze driftin’ on by, you know how I feel. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me.

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
(repeats and mixed into “Strange Fruit”)

[Billie Holiday and Nina Simone Sing Strange Fruit]

Black bodies swingin’ in the southern breeze.
Strange Fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south.”
Track Name: Letter To Dave Chappelle
(Verse One)

The money, power, or fame,
how many people be screamin’ my name,
does not equate to success or freedom to me.
I just wana live,
I just want be, I just want to be, I just want to be-be
I just want to be free.


What happened to Kurt, Janis Joplin or Jimi,
Miles, Coltrane, Billie Holiday, Amy Winehouse, or Whitney.
That fame shit is shifty.
Call it narcissism or call it the drugs.
Call it too much power or the wrong type of love.

And everyone mad at Dave Chappelle
for savin’ himself.
I’m like, well. . .
My music can’t translate to money,
sonny. My music is infinity. Fuck 50 million.
You can’t buy my dignity.

They put Lupe in a bind.
The Roots been low budget for a long time.

[Quest Love]
In our case we get respect because people like our music.


Paris Hilton barley does a day,
but if you a rapper they give you the max and throw the key away.
Picture Talib Kweli questioned by the FBI,
listening to Stokely (Carmichael) and they wanna know why.

Sometimes I’m afraid at night.
I dream. I dream.
Sometimes I’m afraid at night. I’m afraid at night.
I dream. I dream.
Sometimes I’m afraid at night.

I imagine all the people like John Lennon
but then I remember all the people like John Lennon:
Malcom, Huey, King, Kennedys, too many names to mention.

Arizona Sheriffs and vigilantes with raw aggression,
raw aggression.

(Chorus)

I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
And I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
and I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
but I got to feed my family.

[Myrlin]
Sometimes I’m afraid at night
I dream. I dream.
Sometimes I’m afraid at, I’m afraid at night.
I dream. I dream.
Sometimes I’m afraid at night.

[Quest Love]
Celebrity is when your lifestyle, sort of supersedes
what your talent is. In our case we get respect
because people like our music.

[Clayton Bigsby]
Lets talk about Chinese People
All their Kung Fu
And their silly
Ching-Chang-Chong talk I can’t understand you
Go back to your country, “White power.”

(Verse Two)

Dave Chappelle’s black white supremacist hit.
Kids in my class memorized the skit,
couldn’t interpret what Dave was tryin’ to say:
that ignorance is blind and so is hate.
So they actin’ all KKK, runin’ the hall way all day
yellin’, “Go back to your country. White power.”

Stupid kids thinkin’ racism was cool,
unaware that the Chapelle joke was aimed at you.

If I blew, these fools would misconstrue
the shit that I do.

You
say its the year of the white MC.
That don’t mean shit to me,
I’m bi-racial homie.
I ain’t got no fake ID,

and because I speak about race thing,
I’d be the first they paint crazy.

America loves Slim Shady,
cuz that’s poor white American rage,
kicked over music built on black American pain.

And I too break free
from break beats built to from the cracks and the inequality.

I’m just a small town kid big city adopted,
raised into a man,
funky Finiquera where I stand.
Who I am? Just a lonely mestizo
lettin’ ink flow
on the instrumental.
I write
knowin’ people goin’ paint me black or white,
but worse come to worse my people come first
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and I fight
and ahh

(Chorus)

I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
And I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
and I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
but I got to feed my family.

[Clayton Bigsby]
Hey why don’t you jungle bunnies turn that music down, makin’ me sick.”
[Quest Love]
The youth that discovered these blues records once they became of age in the early 60’s they emulated it: Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger. . .
[White Youth in Hip Hop Attire]
Did he just call us n*****s? Awesome!
[Kate Nash]
See…
Without me…heart would break.
See…
You’d always wanna know what I was about.
Spending your whole nights awake.

(Verse, Three)

I never believed in such a thing as bad music,
just misguided lyrics and crap that’s useless.
I don’t believe in white music.
I don’t believe in black music.
I believe the fact is that black people were the first to do this,
created American music,
then the white kids started started groovin’ and wanted to do the same shit.
From hip hop to jazz
they called it devil music or a fad
cuz the music was born black,
but it takes both, you know.
White man invents the saxophone,
oppresses black man.
Black man teaches the white man
how to dance and make that motherfuckin’ horn blow,
ey yo!

Don’t get me wrong. I love legends like Dylan’s and Lennon’s.
I just
make objections when people say rock and roll and only white names get mentioned.
What happened to Muddy, Chuck, and Kool Herc?
The ones who made that shit groove first?
Hey, I give no love to a hip hop Elvis,
black or lilly white, wearin’ a block of ice in the summer time.
You the type to get held over the balcony by a Suge Knight.
Stars fall.
Vanilla ice.
Yikes.

Hip Hop ain’t that black and white.

The truth is
the first b-boys were Puerta Ricans,
and you can’t get no Run DMC without out no Rick Rueben,
and he’s Jewish,
so don’t ask me what the fuck I’m doin’.
This is just hip hop music,
just hip hop music,
just hip hop music.

(Chorus)

I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
And I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
and I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
but I got to feed my family.

I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
And I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
and I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be,
but I got to feed my family.


I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
I don’t want to be famous
cuz that shit will kill you.
And I don’t wanna be,
and I don’t need to be . . .
Track Name: Hometown
(Verse One)
I was born little-bitty-back-woods city—
cut pretty
where the river drift.
What a pity: no rapids.
What the fuck happened?
Manifest Destiny captains went savage with captives river trappin’.
Imagine
the first white man who crawled across this land.
Indian met him with an open hand,
white man starvin’ like Marvin lookin’ like a Martian—dam.
Before he small pox bargain,’
Thanksgivin' party startin’
broken treaty jargon,
back when he was Flintlock armin’,
boat carvin’,
I’m Lewis and Clarkin’.
Born LCV
with Twisted Hair.
Don’t get me started now.
When kids from the res come through my town,
man, they get stared down (wow)
by hicks who play nemesis with entitlement.
They trade them fists.
We be cold like a dam fish—damaged idiots,
like a pilgrim watchin’ Squanto freeze,
holdin children bundled in blankets of statements stitched with apathy.
See, the town sittin’ like an old plantation next to a reservation,
campin-on-concentration
ain’t no conversation.
Dig what i’m sayin’?
I’m American.
(Chorus)
Little girl at the lemonade stand
handin’ free samples to the garbage man (IN MY HOMETOWN).
A man killed his neighbor with a shotgun,
scattered little bones in the mud from the slug (IN MY HOMETOWN).
Boys run the courts uptown, downtown, cross over, lay up, rebound, back down, ball up. State champs raised up on the playground, hey, now.
Honey bees float in the breeze
while a mother on her knees
outside the unemployment office
sayin’ please.
(Verse Three)
IN MY HOMETOWN knew a boy shot down
round’one-o-clock when the glock popped. Watch
brains wash down the window
in the Jack-in-The Box parking lot—
boy got caught with his hand in the sugar bowl trying to play the fox.
In my hometown
things are not what they seem.
It’s a real hard to place to make word love mean a thing.
High school prom queen pukin’ in the limousine
don’t know a damn thing
about a dream.
Please, protect my hometown.
Protect my hometown.
And everyone I know still tryin’ to climb out.
Protect my hometown.
Protect my hometown.
And everyone I know still trying to hold it down
IN MY HOMETOWN
People go to work, make bullets, paper, chop trees,
mow yards, change oil, run streets, drink, drink,
pray, scream, fight, fuck, kill, breathe,
daydream.
People breakin’.
Suicides in my home town.
(Chorus)
Yeah.
A little boy stands in the government yard
trying to play his broken guitar.
IN MY HOMETOWN
Two teenagers fall in love
snuggled up in the pick up truck under the sun IN MY HOMETOWN.
IN MY HOMETOWN
They found the remains of thirteen women in shallow graves
near Los Ranchos where the little girl drinks her lemonade.
(hey)
IN MY HOMETOWN
fresh peaches hang from the trees,
but everybody plugged into they phones on Facebook chillin’ at Mickey D’s.
(Verse Three)
I smell elote roastin’ walking past the dulceria.
Old men boastin’, smokin’, jokin’ outside the cantina.
I was raised into a man in the land of the southwest.
Phoenix poet yes-yes.
Ink flowin’ wet from the ink jet,
I pay rent with words I dispense.
On the bus I bet I met a thousand people from California,
Midwest, East Coast, Guerrero, Zacatecas, Minnesota,
New York, Alabama, Georgia, Dakota, Oklahoma,
Oaxaca, Chihuahua, Chiapas, Sonora, Sinaloa.
I love people in my town
but can’t stand how
politicians make money from the lock down,
focus on one side of town.
Now, in the inner city, cops bow wow like blood hounds
though everybody know now,
most dope get smoked way out
from the city where it be pretty white crowd now.
Rich kid Billy clubbin’,
shovin' coke in the nasal,
and the poor ghetto kid get kicked profile face down,
hometown drug game is fatal. Watch out!
Ghetto bird swoopin’ like a hornet. Yep Yep.
Put a fist in the protest.
El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido:
justice, for the people.
(Chorus)
The little boy watches gangsters pray,
plays his guitar like “One day, one day. . .”
A meth cook dash from his house in flames,
police bust inside tryin’ to find the baby they need to save.
Police wash dirty laundry,
beat Rodney then walk free,
kill Oscar Grant, Troy Davis. Travon screams.
Gave Iverson fifteen years at the age of eighteen.
They used Contra Cocaine to create a crack in the back
of the black community.
Many martyrs bleed.
They can kill a man, but can’t kill a dream. . .
(Verse Four)
We sit from the pews of every church and sing.
Oil wash up on the beach.
We pray for boys in the Middle East.
In A-Z a mother screams, “Jesus Please”
cuz her son got shot down in the street
tryin’ to hold on to his Jesus piece.
The Graffiti piece says, “Rest In Peace.”
We got
many beliefs
but it seems to me
we worship the same thing
prayin’ Mr. Bling-Bling
I need, need,
green, green. Let freedom ring.
Chop-chop go the final tree.
They say,”Save the planet,”
but its more like save the human beings
cuz the planet goin’ be after we all deceased.
All we need is . . .
peace.