Harvested power

The flyest wine sipper; the slyest swine snipper

Ase Spumalte liquor, Selassie philosophy gripper

Ride high on blue-dyed hides of lively llamas

Slide lye to dudes, collide minds with Dalai Lama

Grinding up Aspirin in Aspen deep in the Aston

The girls attracted, we ascend and pass it

We hold up chrome barrels, don’t ever pose arrows

A cold Pharoahe with gold within my bone marrow

Inclusion is the purest art of peer pressure

Abusin’ is endurin’ the parts of who’s mere better

When you should be focusin’ on how to steer cheddar

Not all times is the turning wheel the most clever

At the end it’s the humans who push forth the lever

I hate to argue about who the fuck is rappin better

I create and my art disproves all you jappin’ jesters

Through bodily stress, I had to use eperisone

But your flesh to my flesh pales in comparison

 

My life is so insane, so insane

I can’t seem to find meaning

My art I’ve made, the art I’ve changed

The stars in paint, the world is getting darker

Shine a light at me, the artists and martyrs

The harvesters of power, I don’t allow

Your spirits to invade my mind, I’m devout

 

Being churched as child can kill your brain

The birth of the pain from being religiously slain

Is different amongst all your sisters and brothers

Some just wanna sin and continue to blunder

Some brothers were choked in Biblical covers

So what’s the difference, one that’s inescapable

Abused, used, to another who wants to blaze a few

It is isn’t sustainable and many people will say

That these words are frayed, my views and ways

Are the reason for pain and suffering we sustain

Sayin’ that I believe the religion should be forced

Wrong, that’s a system that left the first western culture hoarse

You jesting vultures mission is to make people suffer

Under their own sword and knives they’ve yet to discover

The highschool life, “the popular life is all of that”

I ain’t that, I’m a pure scholar studying Almanac

 

My life is so insane, so insane

I can’t seem to find meaning

My art I’ve made, the art I’ve changed

The stars in paint, the world is getting darker

Shine a light at me, the artists and martyrs

The harvesters of power, I don’t allow

Your spirits to invade my mind, I’m devout

 

Some of my raps touch on the fact Catholics have slayed

The ideas of beliefs the Indigenous people have made

I can hear my wack ancestors screeching from their grave

Hating the fact a Catholic like me is able to say

That we were in the wrong, muddying the lakes

With blood from the so called “Indians” they would trade

For money or for some type of purpose for a pay

That I can recognize the ripe mistakes we’ve made

So where we go from here, will my ancestors sway

Or continue life in the grave haunting my page

Til I succumb to the thumbs of the evilest ways

Nah, the pen-calligrapher will never easily change

It’s me against the men who challenge my range

Me against the nuns who abused for repentance

That ain’t fun, using the church as a vessel for pittance

The righteous ain’t welcome in it