Poetry’s Illest

Lifestyle of calligraphy, matrimony and holy soliloquies

Roll with inequities, hands perpendicular to something spiritually—

Motivated, the golden rule, older dudes sayin’ “overrated”

My cross on my neck swings back, the microphone is nickel-plated

Brothers with sickle in no hospital beds with no optimal meds

I rock up their heads, like prisoners jumpin’ off of their beds

Stocks up and stress burns within my own socks and chest

While I spot the sess, spark the Phillies with an ounce of lead

A thousand rounds of head couldn’t even give me more knowledge

Swinging round campuses preaching poetry to a college

The wonderama drama, melancholic feelings I vibe constantly

Rhyme sonically with boom bap tracks, divine comedy

Ancient mannerisms, poetic justice stitched into my hand,

Gypsies reading my veins, they see the sweetness in the lamb,

The price of fame is kickin’ to the heavens that praise,

The youngest Pulitzer thane gripping the unleavened grain,

 

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

 

10 for the women, nine for the boys who be on a mission,

I ate Eucharists that propel noise into further superstitions,

Took seven reverends with me on the road to a new religion,

Found myself six feet deep trying to evade truth and wisdom,

Five times I’ve seen brothers fall on their face and go poof and missin’

For I have never been in scene where I drop dead from fools and pissants

Three little birds sat on top of my roof humming the fruits of flippants

Laughing to their nest, but my words cut through roots so listen

One for the intelligent who find life inside a stupid system

Nothing left to say when you’re trying to override crews and mix ‘em

Into black kettle pots, watch the coke cook slow and settle rock

Heart made of metal not a medal, stop the poor ghetto stocks

Several cops with guns strapped on their car’s handles, hot

Shoot up blocks like Rambo, young boys lookin’ up to Django

In the sight of the beast, I’m a disciple of speech

When I write smiteful of peeps I don’t wish could rival with me

Because I’m winning like a title but not like I’m tied to Jay-Z

I’m more like AZ, sinning in a suit, just trying to make some worth

Of a life where sometimes dying wouldn’t be worse,

Wow!

 

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)

Straight from the Six, kid

(Nobody ever touchin’ em)