Alexander the Fallen
{{Anyway enough of that...I'm board}}
Woke up to the TV at about 12 o'clock
Hearin bugs bunny talkin bout whats up dock
In my groggyness I sit back and reply
Not much man just got done bein high
Then I thought to myself why the am I talkin to the telavision?
I was all there but somthin was missin
Dug into my pocket and found three numbers at least
Vicky, Jenna and some chick named Shareace?
Thinkin about it the situation was kinda scarry
After a few drinks these girls only looked like Hally Berry
My stomatch starts to rumble designating my hunger
Think about havin the munchies and hopin thoes girls aint got my number
Then the phone rings and goes straight to the machine
Its Shareace talkin about me and "Big Mama" should do somthing
I thank god I just let the damn phone ring
Hopefuly Vicky or Jenna have some appeal
But I feel like s**t so what the ******** is the deal?
I stood up and almost fell to the floor
Looks like Im not mixin weed and vodaca anymore
...I'm not going to comment.
...anymoreThree steps, then hit the door;
one spit, it hit the floor -
lyrical static buzzing at the sound of applause,
pop strained and fizzled at my lyrical pause -
deep breath, drip the hum of honey from my tongue,
tender notes a'fallin' from the rays of the sun,
couldn't steady the beatin' of my little African drum -
I was walkin' like a queen just waitin' for Kingdom Come -
rhymes manifested, incessant, "I get the message!";
I slit the ink from my wrists and got to pennin' a message,
oblivious to birds buildin' nests out of my tresses.
backed my three steps, erased a score of four;
the success of the mic had me feignin' for more.
Felt like an addict, shakin' and stumblin',
concerned about the foam of words at-my-mouth bubblin';
every time a line was dope, I grabbed it and seized -
seemed like def poetry was the very air that I breathed.
I had Hip-Hop runnin' rampage through my veins,
and genocide occurred with every drip on the page.
Two beats, and I dropped a bomb of dreams deferred,
recycled into the hopes and wishes of the caged-bird;
my eyes still jumpin' from that does of Zune I took last night,
I roamed like a beggar through the streets of that Mead-brand-paper,
devouring the flowers that grew from every crack between, like
I was ready to set it off like a fuse,
like it would self-destruct like a line from Langston Hughes,
like I was ready to preach over the pews,
a religion of lyrics, a holy-mixed elixir as the lush to 'is booze.
So it was three more steps, and I was out the door,
and then one spit off the mic; I let it hit the floor.
a Hip-hop dragoness, I seared ears wit' my roar,
and because of my addiction, I don't "one-hit", I "more".
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