16 Bars (Summer 2019) #14

One bad dream turns into your worst nightmare,

I was right there, with the mask of Jason and the knives of Freddy.

Mom’s Spagghetti, Dad’s machete. There’s blood on his sweater already.

Bad dreams in South Georgia, I could’ve sworn that demon left my body on the

border. /

It’s the mad roamer, the man that’s never sober. It’s never over with this Ford lawn

mower. /

Bad luck’s attracted to me like the villain in every horror movie, or the smokers on

the block. /

I don’t say this shit for shock, who’s luck’s worse than a fiend itching at her spot

and sucking dick for rocks. /

the groupie in the moving Taurus looking for a shot is getting hit on the spot. /

You aint real hip-hop like taggin’ up the block, you just photoshopped, so get lost,

ya’ lop. /

It’s a bad, mad world like a nightmare where the pharmaceutical Cos own the

night air, and people’re dying/

on the streets like cats and birds. Police target the addicts instead of going to the

source. /

Corruption has reached the upper echelon. And we’re meant to keep dumb and

worship in the Pantheon. /

Nah, fuck that! The books I’ve read are stacked like bodies left from the military’s

deadliest weapon. /

I worship nothing, but myself and life. All I do is wake up, read books (make

beats) and write. /

Usually, if I’m drinking, it’s one hell of a night. After the first shot everything

seems alright. /

But after twenty-one more say goodnight. That’s one shot of liquor for every day of

my life. /

What motivates me? Proving you right and saying whatever the fuck I want on

this mic. /

They’re in your dreams at night, the reason you can’t sleep or dream at night.

The reason you can’t save your money. The reason that they say it twice. /

You think those synchronized thoughts are all coincidental? You think those are

your rhymes on your mental?

They try to own you, they want to stone you, and hang you on a cross to dry. /

Don’t be fooled by the gleam inside the mobster’s eye. /

[Temporary Chorus]

It’s the goose, the goblin, the goon, the ghost, the host in your boy’s room, the

footsteps on the stairs.

Nacerima (through entire chorus)

It was the pollen in the air, the elders in their chairs, a long home so distant from

mine. /

Tough tongues so young don’t know where they come from. So, we journey

through space and time. /

I took a trek through the woods along a Yellow river, where the old brick mill held

tears of the young. /

Who worked like dogs, spun hemp raw, and wanted nothing more to be just like

“Pa.” /

That’s the American way: work like a mother fuckin’ slave. And after all you

gave, /

you’re left with nothing. It’s fucking disgusting to think about the minimum wage.

/

“Living month to month, while this pay check isn’t enough, it puts food on the

table for us.” /

So, I work for food, and my heap of metal barely can move. When wealth is what

I’m taught to pursue. /

I don’t want the whole world, baby, just enough. Enough to start a business or

something, what the fuck!? /

The warehouse can’t teach me shit, that life’s a nightmare, and I don’t want to be

trapped on Welfare. /

That’s my state of affairs. And, I can say it aint fair, and I’m sure you’re aware. I

hope this isn’t threadbare. /

I spent time in my life for a career that’s unattainable. It wasn’t a lack of dreams or

ambition. /

We should gain something new with everything that we do, and we should all

have more than enough getting us through. /

The third eye don’t mean shit to me, try reading a book, or studying history. /