Текст: Dalek. Absence. Distorted Prose.

Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit.
This troubling advance of half-assed crews crowd these streets.
Never mind of who I am, son, just listen when I speak
Broken paragraphs hold wrath of a hundred million deep.
Bleak circumstance led masses to only want to dance
A bastard child of Reaganomics posed in a B-Boy stance
Make our leaders play minstrel, Left with none to lead our people.
How the fuck am I gonna shake your hand, when we never been seen as equals?
Deemed evil by those housed in church steeples.
False prophets read backwards from broken tablets to the feeble,
I seen you!
Regurgitate their lies.
I'll bide my time with scrolls and ancient's wine.
Heady brew left mark on this hazy scribe.
If stars align I suppose even the blind will see,
How they stole our last voice, corrupted culture into industry.
Few minutes remain,
A tame soul wanders wild when it dreams.
Mine are filled with ill visions of soot and dope fiends.
These slit wrists won't rest till I spill these last drops.
Tarnished skin only sin when I awoke on sidewalk.


Seen your movements through peripheral
Remain same individual.
When a man's viewed as criminal to act animal is logical.


Audible tones honed to hold substance
Form sentence
Poor reluctant poet, speak prose
Refuse to beg repentance


Reluctant poet speak prose
Incite our peoples
We got raked through those coals
Once the truth was divulged.


Conscience calls thoughts subliminal
Actions all cyclical
Deplorable descendants of men depressed clinical.
Answers seem visible when visionless
Useless souls fold under pressure like hands pray to false Jesus.


Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly.
Anger expressed outwardly
Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC's.


Your fictional tales told with conviction.
Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream
since this inks been forbidden.


Distorted poet, speak prose
Incite our peoples
We got raked over coals
But the truth's still untold.


Meaning lost to these zealots
Prefer bullets to ballots
Watch the rich sip from chalice
As these eyes fill with malice
Peasant hands remain callous
as our days retain darkness
I swallow razor blades to keep my vocal cords sharpened.


Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture.
Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture.


These sullen souls misinformed
Storm gates of stronghold
Strange fate that I chose
Morbid poet speak prose.


Tattered voices arose
Red Blood written on scroll
Escapes throat an ill flow
For my violence atoned.
Modest thoughts monotone
Infant MC's play grown
Found them hung in hallways
from cords on microphones.