"Stark, impossible, deliberate, to all y'all in West Oakland,
greetings in the name.
None was expected but you know, you
should know he came as early, sharpeville on that verse 1:00
PM to savor in amazement the deliberate tase, remember not
just fire.
In every mouth, we save alternative drum.
Now one more time in cicatritic letter, apostle, deliverer,
got down on time, a band and village, communipaw,
the open field of thought like 22
by four by Cecil, eight more on the bottom, live evil,
in love with cars, carnal, his other pulse
and flatted growl, praesthetic lunge and bowl,
her sweets to liquefy for comedy, a kernel,
bright like a motherfucker.
Motherfucker, this easy flow beneath our living room,
the people in me stop by to keep on going,
deep enough to persevere.
It's not that it could only happen here.
Our study group moves for different strings.
Itinerant Piedmont flew a rooted cellar in Provence, Mississippi
on the verge.
The undercolonial crop in bright Mississippi is a storm surge.
Look at bright Olive Morris on a Brixton Pound preserve
our joint communiqué.
Motherfucker, I love cars.
I love to struggle with cars.
I love it when rusty cars won't start for me
and when yellow cars won't stop for me.
I want to be buried in one, so I can rise in one.
I want to be born in one, so I can be buried in one.
This tore-up shit means I'm not you.
If it ain't got the two tires with tread on them,
can it be a bicycle?
If my eight-track work, come on ride with me
to look at them new rims.
You may not have a car at all, Miss Ella, your groceries,
my jitney, and the singers all intimate in all languages.
Motherfucker, the lock on my front door
when I used to roll with Belgrave, and Pontiac,
and Rouge stunned multiple when the water wanna go.
The elegant squat of an interstate tractor, o, here
the low hum of the ho of the sullen,
stolen, rippled ass, here because we brought you here
because they brought us here.
Here with your tiny ears, can't you
hear Miss Ella giving time like Dove?
Embedded roach, to all y'all in West Sag,
fuck y'all in the name.
Neotoque pall, errandt pusher, unrefined buzzer,
that nigga in the alley's official putation, the world
comes out of your mouth so small and counted.
You drink too many thin potations.
You let your songs get old.
You get high on your own supply.
We couldn't afford it, but we got some anyway.
The finance company is a superdome.
This is important, did anybody come in there?
He snuck in my house like it was mine
and tried to take it away while I was steady
giving it away out of no way and spread out everywhere.
But he couldn't lift what he was in because he
wasn't really in it, just the box held
open air all by himself.
When all the other cubes share, he's
all alone like Juan Williams.
So why not take what they've been given all along
and throw it all away on stage and go
home mad to calculate for shortbread and assurance?"