Lyrics
who is their god -
those blind servants to a martyr
I’m no god fearin’ man - I’m a f*** in’ firestarter,
with their perfect, green lawns?
These is pawns -
we the pitbulls and boxers,
blotter bombers, arbor armored
botherers of the conquerers,
fox-quick, out-the-box kids,
these cop snitches
use their feeble guilt to call me wrong?
that’s just fodder for my plot to rot the system/
I strike the match, light the bomb,
then some sound effects and I’ll be gone,
it won’t be long,
I’ll admit my lager postured slack-spine got it wrong,
science project: blue ribbon,
strengthen our jaws on the kong,
suggest imprisonment
of slobbering shoppers’ who is dongs,
and soldier watchers’ rosters, on-and-on,
swan songs sung by bankers, dawn of politi-spawn,
african apes turned snakes turned tron,
burned long its the brain/brawn
primitive escapes of non-narqs
huffing paint and throwing rocks at debates,
my god, her name is IS, IS my god told me:
“you’re not free at last Andy
but you’ll be the last of the free,”
So,
We up the zapatistas, Cornell Wests, free sex
we say “f*** the rest:”
we smoke the best,
roll of the fates met
through marchin’, steppin, reppin,
singin “Go Down Moses”
we be the chosen hopeless
bite back at dogs, cops, poisoned crops and fire hoses,
broken noses, scars,
and the prophet Jeremiah,
“throw them pebbles,” spoke the rebels
“from the prince to the pariah!”
grow some fungals, see the future,
be the man the myth and stone the kingdevil,
rep Martin Luther King at disheveled Malcom X level,
uphold the revel,
participate: the festival
reduce the straighter edges,
be stone-throwin’ bevels of the spectacle,
our antinovels shovel sh** on
shriveled, sniveling rivals,
We be the arrival of survivalists,
bearded, fly as mighty kites pulled by
tribal cyclists,
and f*** your white, trite, archival bible bliss lists
viral vinyl spiteful primal rightful
tight-fisted spiraled rifles,
final clap, spinal tapped
crack your trapped,
crap idols,
final clap, spinal tapped crack your trapped,
crap idols
crack your trapped,
crap idols:
dial 9-11, no better yet: burn, then thump your bibles...
you’ll burn your hands, we’ll take the stand: your trash is treasure in our cycle!
we bite the hand that fed us all that processed stew,
we’ll burn this global to the ground,
grow our own food and start anew...
