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Hungry is an adjective attached to my philosophy, it's gotta be, progress revolves around economy |
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And I can see the consequence of capital first-hand, monorail construction pushed the tenants off the land |
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My people, get ready, it's about to get heavy, and when I'm not humbled then I got fam to check me |
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Silence won't protect me so I check one-two, and fight without fighting like the joint by Sun Tzu |
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On the hill, adjacent to Boeing Field, you can hear the planes flying over me behind my vocals |
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We speak in the Beacon Hill slang with a wonderful blend of black language and immigrant accent |
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And if the sun's out, half the kids will be absent, I'm navigating streets, sometimes it's like a labyrinth |
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I paint my voice while Sabzi builds the canvas to translate my ancestors anthems |
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It's a southside revival, put your hands high, let your arms be the pillars that be holdin' up the sky |
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I heard a few heads say that hip-hop was dead, no it's not |
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It's just malnourished and underfed (x2) |
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Now the reason that they killed made the reason that we came to be |
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Trying to eat and organize simultaneously, but instead most will settle for less |
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I can't front I give a fuck if Ronald Reagan is dead |
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He turned segments of the population into crack fiends, eradicated everything we gained in the '60's |
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Back to square 1, let's revise the strategy to reload the gun and bring about a radical change son |
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These tough talking cowards ain't hard, they'll bounce on the squad when it's time to go to war |
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Like George Bush did to the National Guard, real world-like swordplay, vernacular shark |
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Veterns of American wars, they get home maladjusted with post-traumatic stress syndrome |
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Peace to my big brother, leavin' in a week, stay safe in the Middle East, brah, get home safely |
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It's a southside revival, put your hands high, let your arms be the pillars that be holdin' up the sky |
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I heard a few heads say that hip-hop was dead, no it's not |
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It's just malnourished and underfed (x2) |
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I'm convinced that a return to the basics is needed, I like blizzes that burn long like DVS pieces |
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My speech releases fire from the beast within. I acknowledge its a game, I just defy my need to win |
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Now, some get hip and some choose to stay ignorant, friction leads to fire now the cauldron is simmering |
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World champion B-Boys up in Jefferson, brothers gotta document for those not remembering |
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Both Props and Flavor magazines, rest in peace, I breath deep, proceed to clutch a mic and bless her beat |
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You say there's no time to study, people look, you got time to take a shit then you got time to read a book |
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I proceed to leave my footprints embedded on the block my first-born is learning to walk upon |
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Cops pour salt over the market, the south end is marching, we dedicate this song to the dearly departed |
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It's a southside revival, put your hands high, let your arms be the pillars that be holdin' up the sky |
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I heard a few heads say that hip-hop was dead, no it's not |
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It's just malnourished and underfed (x2) |
