Don't it smell like something fishy going on in the world?
Don't it smell like something fishy going on in the world?

The greatest ploy is ploylessness.

So, my truth casts no shadows
Because it soaks sun like
Hot pavements wet with God-fire.
I want to go higher.
Beyond, beyond before,
When I was who I was
When the thought of what was
Wasn't what it has become,
But a true representation of what it will be when it's done.

Me? Be infinity's cousin.
Gave that nigger a scar up underneath his eye
After a lethal lie.
He was dissing me
While we was playing The Dozens.
"Don't be fucking calling me stupid!
And don't be talking 'bout my Moms!"
We're in a cycle of antipathy
And the constellation is Arms.

But we be sitting on corners,
Sipping corrupted quarter waters,
Doing jumping-jacks,
Jumping at the first chance to jump up and dance and shout and shake
And sure enough show off our pittance.
Pitted against preparation, concentration, reparation,
The constellation... is Arms!

41 shots aimed at the nearest star.
Plungers peering the innards of who we are.
Bullets piercing our resilient flesh,
Re-instilling that brilliant death that was felt on the Atlantic floor.
Fuck am I here for!? Huh!?
Fuck am I here for!?

Life.
Write these rhymes, get this dough.
Liberty?
That must be that statue down near them buildings
Where they be getting that dough.
The pursuit of happ- The pursuit!?
"Boy, look at that nigger run!
And when he get caught he can lie!"
Like Plymouth Rocks
And Rushmore Mountains
And [separate fountains]
And desperate moments
And what you call purple mountain majesties,
Purple mountain majesties sound to me like strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood on the root.

Treat me nice, yo,
If you want me to have your back.