Thursday

Blow out the candles. Tonight I don't want any light wasted
 Film Americana fills my mouth but even light doesn't taste good
 That's why MC's spit out
 Faced with compensating complacence we turn away to rinse with act still this selfish plague lingers
 Like twelve years of drum disease
 Mix black, white, New Orleans, New York and gargle twice daily, drops of art's saline
 Everything's gone blurry
 What we saw clearly in the womb most won't know at thirty
 It's a Thursday and I sit at home worried of soul hygiene
 Like nat used all the training Visine
 Defining literally what to be a mic fiend
 We smoke away our pipe dreams
 Yellow teeth decay and fallout, we stay all out, and always, all out, wondering what hell this hole crawled out
 And touch the sky's mouth with this thing these songs house
 We till the earth with dark clouds 'till the earth's scars heal
 We resurrect the stars dile
 Pierce the night with large howls
 We peace white walls with shit like revolution right now
 Square off with sons of darkness in night rounds
 We circle daughters of light wearing bright crowns
 I'm like, bound to free death
 Might drown in these breaths
 Mics crowd and need rest
 I frown and detest white power and regress to beat laid down for these heads
 And this mic ain't going now where
 Till I bush my teeth where justice leaks and trust my beats to put me down for another night
 Blow out the candles, and get some rest