| 作曲 : Booth, Dälek, Oktopus | |
| 1. 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. | |
| 2. Seen your movements through peripheral | |
| Remain same individual. | |
| When a man's viewed as criminal to act animal is logical. | |
| 3. Audible tones honed to hold substance | |
| Form sentence | |
| Poor reluctant poet, speak prose | |
| Refuse to beg repentance | |
| 4. Reluctant poet speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked through those coals | |
| Once the truth was divulged. | |
| 5. 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. | |
| 6. Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly. | |
| Anger expressed outwardly | |
| Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC's. | |
| 7. Your fictional tales told with conviction. | |
| Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream | |
| since this inks been forbidden. | |
| 8. Distorted poet, speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked over coals | |
| But our truth's still untold. | |
| 9. 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. | |
| 10. Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture. | |
| Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture. | |
| 11. These sullen souls misinformed | |
| Storm gates of stronghold | |
| Strange fate that I chose | |
| Morbid poet speak prose. | |
| 12. 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. |
| zuo qu : Booth, D lek, Oktopus | |
| 1. Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit. | |
| This troubling advance of halfassed 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 BBoy 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. | |
| 2. Seen your movements through peripheral | |
| Remain same individual. | |
| When a man' s viewed as criminal to act animal is logical. | |
| 3. Audible tones honed to hold substance | |
| Form sentence | |
| Poor reluctant poet, speak prose | |
| Refuse to beg repentance | |
| 4. Reluctant poet speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked through those coals | |
| Once the truth was divulged. | |
| 5. 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. | |
| 6. Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly. | |
| Anger expressed outwardly | |
| Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC' s. | |
| 7. Your fictional tales told with conviction. | |
| Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream | |
| since this inks been forbidden. | |
| 8. Distorted poet, speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked over coals | |
| But our truth' s still untold. | |
| 9. 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. | |
| 10. Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture. | |
| Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture. | |
| 11. These sullen souls misinformed | |
| Storm gates of stronghold | |
| Strange fate that I chose | |
| Morbid poet speak prose. | |
| 12. 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. |
| zuò qǔ : Booth, D lek, Oktopus | |
| 1. Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit. | |
| This troubling advance of halfassed 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 BBoy 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. | |
| 2. Seen your movements through peripheral | |
| Remain same individual. | |
| When a man' s viewed as criminal to act animal is logical. | |
| 3. Audible tones honed to hold substance | |
| Form sentence | |
| Poor reluctant poet, speak prose | |
| Refuse to beg repentance | |
| 4. Reluctant poet speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked through those coals | |
| Once the truth was divulged. | |
| 5. 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. | |
| 6. Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly. | |
| Anger expressed outwardly | |
| Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC' s. | |
| 7. Your fictional tales told with conviction. | |
| Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream | |
| since this inks been forbidden. | |
| 8. Distorted poet, speak prose | |
| Incite our peoples | |
| We got raked over coals | |
| But our truth' s still untold. | |
| 9. 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. | |
| 10. Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture. | |
| Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture. | |
| 11. These sullen souls misinformed | |
| Storm gates of stronghold | |
| Strange fate that I chose | |
| Morbid poet speak prose. | |
| 12. 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. |
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