Smoke - Quakers

It’s the basement dwelling virgin on the verge of murking those

Who try to rearrange my station, so be staying on your toes

For a swift kiss of death, I section out the mic

With the sceptre in my sight from the microphone stand

It’s all part of commanding the plan

Rearranging the pages and making a name for yourself

In the age of information we’re naked and aimless

Abel and Cain, yet we’re strangers

See a brother make it and hate 'em

Well I’m taking off everything I earn yet you yearn

With the yeast in your chest, deceased

With the breath I’m blessed

Vocal cords so the mic don’t stress

I take a load off the shoulders of the 1−2 check

I’m positive, with skill and the will to consider

I’m rocking gigs from LA to LA

But get me on a telegram and I’ll knock a city in the next day

I think for — ah shit

I think forward like a mortician

The more victims I get the more my sickness is a business

Cause I’m a victim of my words, I feel your hurt

I feel your pain when you get slain by my intoxicated brain

I’m speaking from a chamber of being

Where they pray that my last ounce of sanity remains

They branded me depraved

These verses run hearses through my veins

Leaving splinters in the chamber of age

This ain’t a big move man, I rap in fidgets

Any more than that is nothing short of sort of cataclysmic

I’m the mystic, mister lifted and gifted

I’m sifting my path graphic you know I’m flipping my digits

Getting with it, granted I knew my scripture was written

Like pictures of kids looking in twenty years when they miss it

The bunny ears are encrypted in prime alliance

Feeling my vital signs, making sure our talent was still alive

You feel the vibe, I’m trying to press it

You still decide that the majority is morphing into a killer tribe

Still you be chill, ridden to find a iller guy

Crime and violent heights while he’s talking down at a bitter sky

My God’s fried, Twitter that to your inner eye

Went from crying sinning to twenty year old Gemini

You see the birds stay home, I make the winter fly

South for the summers and LA has gotta recognise

Los Angeles is hotter than the surface

Of the bastard ass son leaving home for the campus

Busting rhythms that make you rupture your pancreas

Your man must enlighten those who writing the bad jokes

The prose, close your eyes cause you’ll be biting the damn dust