Roots from the Father that tossed the seed
The rotten apple of children left to sprout his own leaves
The black sheep of the family tree who's now breathing in green
Not even knowing what it means
I question everything n' everyone;
Fluoride in the water got me sipping on the Evian
Getting slept on like bitches with their bevy on
Could I hang with anyone when I turn the telly on?
People questioning aggression & pain;
But of course I'm moody, man it used to be my last name
Putting the cro to propane, just hoping the rain'll turn to rays
On the pavements I was raised just to pave a brighter way
Now it's 4 am again n' I'm flexing this pen
I haven't slept cos I haven't thought the right rhyme to write yet
So fuck the mic check; I might wreck the mic set
Wrestling with the devils in Sutherland's head
I be that bubonic plague; I'm bound to blow
To epidemic waves spitting sickening flows
Punch force alike Thor's hammer throw with one blow
Crushing jaws to nose-bones through your domes past the Ozone
This is what I was put on this Earth-to-do-since birth
It's everything I'm worth, the only thing that's even worth the work
It's a blessing & curse; until rest in a hearse
I'll be stressing with the words n' digesting herbs
Fuck that bitch, I don't need her shit
Bun a spliff and just forget she exists
Sometimes I think if I was rich then I would be a drug-addict
Panicking on Prozac just to run from past habits
I'm past stoned; so stoned I'm in the past, though-
My present ain't a gift like the Grinch was is in this mad dome
Enclosed in my DNA's engravings on my gravestone
It's set in stone, my fate's closed; I better face the microphone
Never need friends; nowadays I count on a hand
Cos in these ends you can't even trust your own Dads
It's sad so many lad's have taught themselves to be a man
Like Sutherland when my Ma' was working nights to get scran
In a family tree prone to having a heart attacks;
Having panic attacks on Prozac, pen to notepad
I wrote that my hearts black as lungs from the blow-back
On phone-pad's the triple 9 on-call like my dope, lad
I know that; if I keep going the way I'm going, man-
My toe-tag'll be in the morgue before I know that
I hope that my act cleans itself but due to cold facts;
I'll end up as an alcoholic junkie with no flat
I don't call that! To me your nine to fives a fall-back
There's no chance that no rap of mine'll make a dope track
I hold that on Carter, Jay, Lace n' Cam in bold caps;
If I'm not making a living of spitting then I'll swallow Jacks
