The past might be faded (faded, faded)
But the future’s pixelated (-lated, -lated)
And the present is debatable
And everything is hate-able
We generation ‘I Don’t Get It’
Little babies diabetic
I look around it’s all medium-res
And every newspaper, website’s medium read
And the media! The media! The media’s dead
And if you need to be fed
Well then you’re barking in the wrong kitchen
The cooks, the chefs, they gone fishin’
Man, you just missed 'em, they left a note
Like, ‘Hey, by the way, can we borrow your boat?’
You need that like you need a sword-swallower
To borrow your throat
So pardon the joke, but this is the art of the broke
No, the art isn’t broke, but the artist is though
And the artist is a martyr to most
Especially its own brain, that’s the heart of the joke
And when I say ‘THE joke’, I mean like life
Got truth tatted all on my face like Mike Tyse
Now all I need’s a mirror
Francs, Yen, Lira
And 7 Samurai to hold the village down l
Like Kurosawa, the list goes on like comma
Comma, chameleon, lama
Modern Shark swimming through the drama
Converting it to comedy
Then harmonize the grits and turn 'em back to hominy
Cause the past might be faded (faded, faded)
But the future’s pixelated (-lated, -lated)
And the present might be fully recorded and digitized
But the future’s not written in code that we define
So, nor can we decipher
Dead the house lights and spark your digital lighter
And I’ll provide the digital flame
And we can get lost innocently like a kid in a game
Like ‘Now you’re playing with power’
Last board, last guy, and you may get devoured
But it doesn’t really matter
Cause what matters is the feeling
I’m not in the building, the building’s on fire
My relationship to the building is like ‘Man On Wire’
Just a little higher, contemplating other shit
Came out of my mothership
Looking for my fathership
Thoughts on the page feel ancient like an obelisk
So when they be like “What’s up Baje?”
I say “I’m marvelous!”