Lyrics: Thabang Byl
Music: Thabang Byl
I’ve been watching how it all goes down,
I got my sleeves folded, bout to give a mystical burn/
That makes the heat smoulder/
Devine aroma, like a china stick/
Marq’s a Nihilist , that’s got you in a coma/
Dead-beat- counterfeits/
I got your soul lit, on fire like a revivalist/
Raise serotonin, emit the glow, Ultraviolet /
How I shine, solar ray/
Bipolar, mic holder,
Spit Colder, than the average - rate, spin bowler/
Seen my face on the dart board/
Dark lord, black sheep, underdog mapped on a chalkboard/
Born over , since the rebirth,
So preserve, The symbolism’s arrival/
Tidal, Trojan horse your idol/
Rehearse, like a ball player /
Somebody hold hands of time, speed dial a watchmaker/
Retreat with a catalogue of a scripture /
If you gotta kick tha/ ..Real/
That candle flicker/
Slowburn chill,
Let my minds finger paint you a picture/
In a lingering winter/
During the Solstice , in 81, my mother delivered/
Me to the earth /
Like it was God's work/
Visualise the artwork.
Like ornamental engraving on clockwork.
Miraculous and crystalline without a co-sign /
Moonlit veil, shining off the Midnight sun/
Night of the wolves, angels fear to tread though we walk there.
Warfare from the first day, needed some iron ware/
Life’s never been a bed of roses/
The enemy’s ferocious/
Diagnosis,
sleepwalker ate a lotus/
If we finally retaliate to barbarous oppression /
Nobody’s privileged to choose the manner or the weapon/
It’s garbage, telling dissenting people behave/ /
While they never got a choice,
on whether or not they wanna be slaves/
Leaders are depraved, rulers follow the manipulators/
Opulence of sick bigotry, foul, criminal, calculated/
Evil, begets evil, so you get what give.
Many nights cold sweats, days, shivers and chills
When I think about, what it really means to be free/
Or how it really feels, especially the highest degree.
Wanna grow old, lavish as Italian Baroque/
On a piece of an estate thats fit for otto bismark/
in full health, with Peruvian Medicinal bark/
And play blues for a hip king, the hymns for the patriarchs /
Humming in the distance, the sound of a clarinet /
as my my hair grey, like the ashes off a cigarettes/
and when my life is smoke, what remains is a Silhouette/
going out with a bang, like the shot of a pistol went/