Themselves Back II Burn
We back to relapse
On a block called “The Trap,”
Its windows blackened with rap
To them ten strong in the hack
Dragging this song
We back to redact them old tags on the wall
Names at half-mast, cast in a lawless black scrawl
Mere bylines at twilight beginning of getting a die right on
In three-to-four letter loyalties that dry before dawn
By habit or craft
My whole discograph
Is first murmur and last stab
Relentless as rent checks
My rep is a slur, curse, word, and a death threat
As for old fears, son, there ain't no answer record yet
Spit oil slick talk, you might slip on the set list
I did slit a brittle novelist with one-ice line pick, kicked…
We back with both halves
To burn, bone, and last
And know that
No exile a return is entire just as
This ain't all aftermath of a crash
Ask dax…
Motherfucker, guess who's back…
We have returned to the ave. of first things
And we're back to burn the debris of beginnings
To my many lives' timeshare dimes and term-limit crews
I leave for each of you the bookkeeping that thieves do
At three in the morning beneath a bloodless moon
But I knotted no rope of licensing that I might leave you in Junes, no icy Midas finery lining my B of A tomb
Only swap meet winnings unmoved in a rented room
In addition to the foul and mutual feeling used
So to my enemies true
To my mom's new names and her hundred gurus
To them tired-guitar, light-on-heart, mind-on-marquee, try-hards… got nothing but grudge for them, twice-robbed
A shadow plugged by art burning vice squads
Cross a career of called bluffs
Sensitive mics and puzzles in dust
Plus the peculiar alone of us
All not on posse cuts
I will put it one way: on you
No rotted rope oath, rehab robe
Long road ode. Oakland winter know
The razor wind in my throat
Cut through your bird bone
Won't quit at its hollow;
We not vox pop poll or Pitchfork prop swoll
No pay-stub mob mules, nor orthodox old school
South Bronx rap rules, simply diss song true
You?
Are you easy on being, do you heed the
Beat of blood or believe
In it heeding you or even short leashing you
Read tea leaves 'n' stars then start dry-heaving
Are you asleep or simply discreet
Cleaning in da sewer of the desire for a redeemer
Meaning :
Do you throw your back out dreaming?
To dive bars, my bent blinds
The three AMs of thirty year olds
And all else near gold, gone, dull, dim
Or sentient numb
Whether shining or shunned
None and all can come
And get un-done
By the two in the selves one
And they sung
Sung of the matter in a manner that held
One's lone gun pen to one's hunt-net drum
And they sung
With the kind of hunger wings once sprung from
And they sung
From the boiler room of buildings where your heroes get hung