Blood Blots & Ink Clots
Kept to my calling... just a fall guy stalling
a respected death to resurrect the wrong song;
Hip Hop went all city and we sung along with pity,
simply disillusioned to four element's fusion.
Confusion contorts your cohorts in their short-
sided statistical revert to seeing the game as sport.
It's the only suicide revised to hurt anything
but the industry, crying tears over criteria seen
like we've been watching green screen routines,
then added in an average addictive beat when fiends
of lyricism resorted to supporting street teams.
Beneath blood and ink reason needs to think
which mixture to seal; clean the bleeding link.
Missing is this thing we'd steal, bottled in drink
twisting caps backwards sitting at 16 bars kinked;
got faucet flows on tap that are all outta sink.
Should I connect the dotted lines where you'll find
a dollar sign in fine print right under the bottom line,
or refund you're time for listening to the crime?
A stale taste; that pale complacent face... do you mime?
My minds been gold-mined so I stole cold, refined souls,
to combine a platinum shine to the everyday grind;
binded in a contract but I'm content with the concept
of declining abstract rehashed as mass appeal overslept.
Made a deal to intercept tape deck intellect; dirty digits
diggin for who did it, didn't Diddy budget high fringe bets?
Got a Jones's to die on me; next jump off your Diary... Bridget.
.. two links to have this reopened.
- Atty
