Outline these words in chalk.

Primal thoughts spark.

Secondary realness resumed by beast mark.

A silent song kept me calm.

My earth crumbles.

Tighter grip on microphones.

Results subtle.

Simple approach.

I keep my mental core humble.

Simple-minded souls at verse end for funnel.

Red scrolls and grits rubble.

You await a deaf mute's rebuttal.

And hope to gain answers.

Abstract laughter collapse.

It's long to part-time actors playing role of street scholars.

The week follow, my thoughts wander to Diallo.

Freedom bled from his chest, yet wears our unrest.

They got our masses brainwashed Who drops the knees to pray to false gods?

Who thinks their speech can beat such low odds?

Earth is structured, designed to make idols from frauds

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Idols, of course.

Rapping, yes, it's yours.

Who drops the bass?

Yeah, man, fuck that.

Knackered with attacks, left me aggrieved Fist cocked back, react to undernourished Moms who insist to sneak

Rampant ignorance scorched eyes in first degree Left it blind to describe what we all see

A systematic dismantling of every brick we built.

Replacing classic MCs with minstrels.

Forget skills, son.

You're set to spin a duet with Britney and sell millions.

Endangered species.

Scented with flesh from oppressive necks Verses hard to digest but I digress Your useless attempts only have me seeing red Misled masses about to revolt on world scale

See you next time.

Pray to false gods Who thinks their speech can beat such ill odds Earthly structure designed to make idols from frogs

Who drops the knees to pray to false gods?

Who thinks their speech can beat the chill odds?

Idols from France, rapping, yes, this is yours.

Who drops the knees down there?

I see your pros when I sell you punk niggas, my opinion Give a fuck about your million dollar homes, rides and women Poetry will split that skull, make precise incisions Catch you talking shit, I'll beat you inches from not living Quarter rhyme is rhythm, essence close to missing Passing pop for hip hop, sons sense the difference They lack a real tradition of the eastern griot That timid flow couldn't hold the ill strength of our

Who drops the knees to pray to false gods?

Who thinks their speech could beat such ill odds?

Urban structure designed to make idols from frauds Wrapped in yeses and yaws