Themselves Crosssection Of Wreckage (feat. Alias And Dj Andrew)
we don't believe in weak spot
for every cheap shot you got
we hold a mirror to your blind spot
your throat holds artificial words
spewing garbage lines out to the headliners herds
a puppet to your own disappointment
your big ego’ed mouth is a fly in the ointment
This ain't no rap and all name
All act and no pain
drag around our honesty
like a ball and a chain
take a bullet for these two no question
you flake on labelmates at a managers suggestion
now who's the better man?
who's got the better plan?
freinds for life or fleeting fame leaving you with less
than?
Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope
In the blood
Cold in the drug
Tow of show
And no
Thing
But owe
One wing and stole
got no answer but you got a perfect shrug
to
Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope
In the blood
Cold in the drug
Tow of show
And no
Thing
But owe
One wing and stole
Like coffee goes coal in the give of your guts
Dues polluting how you dust to dust and skull touch
Diesel in the weight of your words
Credo in the wish that you serve
Eye teeth to the curb of age
Blues thief in a serge of days
Of sun over flesh
And Cease over breath
Spitting light from a cracked rock
Supporting life with your back stock
watched wall clock never turns
gotta push big and little hands to shape what you earn
the law of diminishing returns
is all death and taxes
it's finna happen
till that day we stay button pushing and rapping
all of these poems take place in the space between
various bills
on the edge of a bed or the wiles of a fool hero's
cloud black and clear head
best digested in a pair of 100 dollar headphones
or in a divebar on the back of a microphone
You can't go eye for an eye
Alone on yourself
For too long you loose sight
Begin to see yourself as death
On the mic
Low level life
Poor chooser of fights
Disbeliefer of hype
All raw eye and no sight
Alone in the light of your death on the mic
Or the sword of poor choice in life
Disbelief and diffuse hypes
This is yet another record about we and our littleing
Something sensitive and neked out of song that we’re
widdleing
Bigger than the middle man up
You is or you isn’t
A thing of fragile or a cross section of wreckage
to which our living clings
