BONA Face Killah
A Tribe Called Breast
Now presenting what I'm representing, while I'm in hot supplementing,
the pills that I spilled like a cryp, life aint' always bout' how fast ya' run,
when ya' killed then sipped holy blood
like ya' justified a gun,
my rhymes will sweat outta' your pores,
like you concealed behind closed doors,
a heart, a mind, and maybe more,
like the opened core, o' god's blessed shores,
you're a two-faced mantle,
to the sun ya' can't hold a candle,
you'll never find nightlife,
too busy lightin' your path with a limelight.
Just remember what image you've signed, “aiight”?
Somewhere there’s an angel in this hell I call dimension,
not that there’s any angles or exponential positions that I’d mention.
I’m bringin’ up the metaphorical ice age with fire, tryin' not to melt the black ice,
but nowadays it's nearly retorical, to ask if bein’ color-blind’s expired,
so let's let make this historical,
and my apologies
to the man with the last name T and all ya other true MCs, The King,
I know ya'll had a dream,
but maybe ya’ got caught up in your self-esteem.
And I know ya’ll people got a lust for teams,
but me an’ the people gonna’ save ya’ from your fantasies…
We’re your own Justice League.
at least my people laughin' with me.
Hey this aint’ the end here, if ya’ aint’ found the spotlight ya’ aint’ even been here,
ya’ can’t find inspiration in the dark, we all know it’s what ya’ fear,
so turn on ya’ nightlight,
and turn ya’ back to lied life,
and come with me and the rebellion to the lightside,
and you'll get ya’ reward when the times right.
Yo, I aint' no gansta' idol,
and my skin aint’ designed in tribal,
but I still passed these trials,
so now whose got their fingers on the dials?
Press #1 to stay in denial.
Cuz’ ya’ the storybook rabbit,
quick to ya’ habbits,
ya’ never lasted to an aftermath, ya’ always take “the latter path”,
while I take my time, I don’t need to pre-write my rhymes,
when I’m spittin’ outta’ time,
while ya' livin' life in flashbacks of mounted crimes.
So let ya’ voice chime in,
don't just let someone else's choice keep ya' ridin’.
Toked-back Mountain is ya’ rested retrieval,
Ya’ aint’ no prophet, ya' aint’ bested relieval.
Yeah ya’ should stay in the middle,
cuz’ ya’ lines mid-evil.
But just halfway, cuz’ ya aint’ as bad ya make yourself seem
and that's a fact,
ya’ just a mellowed-sick road, just an empty pathway, tryin' to conceal the fact that ya’ wack.
But that's okay when ya' talkin' through chains,
a bottle and a pipe to kill ya' pain.
Back to origins,
I've left the loop sore again.
holy ******** s**t son! and they said i wrote an essay.
eek What do you mean?
I don't have to care anymore 'bout photobucket bandwidth,
never gave s**t 'bout e-wars jus' ******** all that s**t.
I can't get some cash for this s**t, not even a loan.
I jus' get payed off in gaia gold.
I'll jus' get layed off in buyin' monthly collectibles,
on the internet my future's selectable.
Hey, how many pixels on ya' avi?
I'm so underground cuz' excessive pixelized bling I be lacking. <******** this whole damn digital disater,
I aint' leavin' yet, jus' reachin' the end faster
which is marked by a ********' fire wall?
I pimped out my comp wit' a modem for free-wired calls.
Connection found, so now I'm hopin' for what?
A ********' enchanted box
with wings.
And now I say, with mod's speed
that this aint' just another spam mail,
it's the whole damn scam sale.
And yet I'm still here in this damn sticky,
and if ya' don't like me ya' aint' a mod, can't kick me.
Ya' can't punch me, stomp me,
stuck in a seat behind a comp screen.
But just drag it out, drag it out,
like how I drag e-bouts about.
At least til' I've dropped a few lines,
Freeflow: Mak, Frac. To the outside: Bloo, Lime.
And I'm still rappin' for the people, not pixels,
why aint' you, pixel? Still call ya'self lyrical?
I still stand firm on my seat, appraising the majority callin' ya'll good typers,
but through a screen how we know ya' accurate if ya' jus' a pixelized sniper?
But I still try to see a reason for believin'
through this third-world screenin'
of gaian rappers, battlers, and hagglers
where the biggest threat is named Lanzer.
From square one to square two,
-oh s**t I mean pixels-I cut the floor wit' my red phat shoes
a set pumpkin headphones, some balc in da hood pants, and a scarf called autumn glory,
if ya' don't like me the worst thing ya' can do is click a frowny face to ignore me.
Oh s**t I got a virus in my computer. Oh, that's jus' good ol' Vyrus.
Wit' his $200 dollah' mic, my gaia gift card can't afford those prices.
I got yet another scam mail in for a steal from some guy askin' for a bribed test.
Replied wit' a diss so memorable he'll never forget A Tribe Called Breast.
But I keep my e-structured cranium held high,
muggin' Gaia cash shops for freebis nailed by
the firewall, filled wit' illegal downloads and viruses, so now death be thy program
an' I still eatin' the Apple from the hands of not my savior but a snow-blind old man.
General discussion for the dunces paTrolling the e-a** 'burbs.
An' now speak to a Mod for consolling, but never see answers.
Touchdown! Now donate all ya' Gaia cash to pac mules
while the Patriot rebellion resides in terms of lacked rules.
Uber haXXors muggin' me day-in day-out while I play slots for some quick gold, e-cash.
Oh s**t man, I only got 8-Diagrams rung up on the meter so far from the Big Doe Rehab.
So I jus' invest in the Market stocks.
But I always seam to target flops.
An' I run-run as far away from e-fights as my bones rattle listenin'
but then I gotta' camp in Gaia worlds waitin' for a lone Battle System.
Wack keystylers jump in for the ride an' end up bitin' the dust quicker than an ad's free prize.
They never existed to me, jus' a mass of illusions in my eyes but later in life as these lies:
The position of wealth through skill as we all sit 'round a piece of software for the kill,
changin' chambers as quickly as cyber wardrobes boundin' these dumb blocks' airborn then still
in this mass of weightless vision fueled by strength in the fingers
an' yet some cats spend their time braggin' 'bout bein' bangers.
Now raise ya' asses in a toast to the ones who surrender the fastest.
Pourin' ya' s**t in masses while the humble stay behind jus' for laughin'
at the ones wit' the shine in their eyes of anger, oh wait that's jus' a glare
not that either way there's a known female-made form of known repair.
An' now I'll jus' spin my rotatable seat, but I'm never quite dizzy,
'cept when I catch a glimpse of the starting view of this ending
but not quite an epilogue to e-frustration, of these dumb stations
of punch-sobered begginings, a sequal's vacation could make done
this introduction to the good, the bad, and the false identity
represented by a same-weight, same shaped cause-blind enemies.
Not fighters, jus' strugglers in a one-sided grammar error
but if this was life, false words are simply stammared matters.
So I keep tickin' away til' my big bang. Boom.
But now another time bomb now awaits you.
So jus' take a space back, but there's no editing in the seat
so jus' stay on the comp an' fast forward, rewind, repeat.
Blackout, left cold dumb.
Yet I still feel heat from the modem.
While 2girls1cup is somehow leavin' Bushes wit' sloppy dicks
the helmets on guns plan attacks on a stack of floppy discs.
Tha Saltee Nutz Gang, keystylin' for extra cash rolls paying,
oh look at that, I got a stash of Gaia gold an' a Daily Chance.
Reply
