The Neverending Story

A bunny can, su espectro
 Have you ever heard the tale of
 The noblest of gentlemen rose up from squalor
 Tall, dark, and decked out in custom-made regalia
 Smellin' like paraphernalia
 Hailin' from the home of Mahalia
 His uptown smile was gold like of Frankie Beverly Day
 His favorite song from Prince was not, "Raspberry Beret"
 It was, "Sometimes It Snows In April"
 He was brought up by the faithful
 In the cage of every unclean bird, ungrateful and hateful
 The legend of the clandestine reverend from the Bricks
 With the master's grip to pull the sleeping giant out the ditch
 And I ain't even have to wiggle my nose like Bewitched
 I just upshift the six, convert the V4 to a broomstick
 Though I tarry through the valley of death, my Lord give me pasture
 If you want to be a master in life, you must submit to a master
 I was born to lock arms with the devil at the brink of the hereafter
 Me, the socket, the plug and universal adapter
 The prodigal son who went from his own vomit
 To the top of the mountain with five pillars and a sonnet
 The autobiography read Quranic
 Spread love like Kermit the Frog that permeate the fog
 I'm at war like the Dukes of Hazard against the Bosses of the Hogs
 Gi-Gi-Giggity, Alchemist put the icing on the soliloquy
 Let it be forever known that I niced up to pen something considerably
 Jay Elec' told the flow mainly is support mainly
 The fatwa he issued on al-Shayṭān was delivered plainly
 It's the day of Qiyāmah
 To the believers, I bring you tidings of joy
 But if you want beef, I'll fillet mignon ya
 You could catch me bummy as fuck or decked out in designer
 On I-10 West to the desert on a Diavel like a recliner
 Listen to everything from Electra
 From the honorable minister Louis Farrakhan
 To Serge Gainsbourg or Madonna or a podcast on Piranhas
 What a time we livin' in, just like the scripture says
 Earthquakes, fires and plagues, the resurrection of the dead
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 I'm a miracle, born with imperial features
 I'm a page turner, sage burner, santeria
 Chongón, December baby, Mauritius
 Saint Hov, story takes place in ancient Egypt
 They'll cut off the nose to spite their face, they'll steal yo' Jesus
 I can't Tahiti White that blued-eyed virgin is make believe stuff
 She throw me out the house, say ye deliver us from this heathen
 I say that to Ms. Tina, she'll sneeze at sun, her photic reflex
 They both have straightening combs, little did they know
 I hold the heat next
 Neither tool, can be used to fix our defects
 P.S: we born perfect, fuck all the B.S
 Everybody wanna be us for real, we just gotta see us
 Insha'Allah
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 I tried to turn a page, over a zillion times