As my man Ill said
God rung the alarm so Im up early
Giving my sermon on project benches
Spitting to the ash wipers, trapstars, and
The single moms with an ox between the cheek

Writing scriptures on brown paper bags
Crumpled up from the crack music
pumping through my people's system
Feeling that base as it gets low
Making their hats hi
To give them that eupohia they've
been missing on the radio
So I preach in stereo
so both ears can get some of that good good

During my sermons, I mount on rooftop
littered with opened wrappers
carelessly left while moans
lifted upwards as testimonies to the creator
Catching the spirit with each stroke

Breathe easy, my children
Be easy, my sons
for pounds of steel
warm your stomach like homemade soup
grandma used to make
while you wipe your nose
cuz the world was too cold
to care like she used to
(Ed note: still working on this one...)



We are all dreamers...

"You know we're back, right?"