I
speak to the mind. Inevitably
you’ll find that you’ve fallen behind, and though you’ve
listened to the rhyme 9 times and 9 times out of 10 you didn’t understand
them. Tell the preacher you have
sinned cause I’m coming with my men and we’re going to come again
and we’re not after y-y-yen but to bend the rules, defend the schools,
clean the pools, lend to fools, mend the tools to fix a generation. All across this nation our fate takes
priority over elations, soulful tastetations. We create sullations in populations due to over copulation
because of greed and glamour, the stamina to stay alive, but we forfeit to
increase the size of the hive. My
mind writhes with the thought of it, but by then I’ve fallen behind.
Verse by Zach Miller
Verse by Brody Weiman
I hold this mic in my hand like I’m fighting the
man and I’ll write in the sand that I’m biting the hand that feeds
me. The only soul I know leads me
to concede to be letting it go freely.
I can easily see the day that it rides away, expands out of my hand to
release and cover the land. My
mind will be set free, enstowing upon me the need to be me. Right now I can only see at a 33 degree
angle in front of me, but I long for the full 360. The earth is a ball, much too small to comprehend,
insinuating by the fact that we have to fend for ourselves that we are not
prepared for the gifts the universe has to offer. We receive a softer proposal: to get along.
