Time to drop the top heavy axes.
I'm bringing the power back to the mass and the saxes.
Playing your game back call us slightly stoopid.
We hear your steel pulse, same dark sound to any lid.
You’ll never outlast, we carry the everlasting tribal seeds.
Burn our natures home, fools forgot the burning was for the
weeds.
Ave Maria to your ways of santeria, Sublime songs to your
soulless mouse in a kia.
Roots Rock and Ray Gay, Your toying around in the land that
holds the mission in the bay.
Playing your favorite boy game of red rover.
Funny it only takes a tap to tip yours right on over.
Masters of Illusion, you forgot about the boy of confusion.
Take back your intrusion, David’s got his sling upon fusion.
Keep your helmets on, the rock’s coming from the swift of my
palm.
Have you stuck on a tree, never needed you to feel calm.
Come on Kids were walking a tightrope.
While we play dummy and watch the citizen have to cope.
Forgot the royal colors of the Purple and Green.
I’m talking the sweet sensi with a little bronze in between.
Putting red and yellow back to its mean.
Tried planting it on too many brothers.
Why you think all you got were crying mothers?
They were out playing the old messiah.
Flipping a coin on who their going to leave to cry to ya.
Back in the 70’s feeding you lets say discovery.
Why you think you tripped more over some herbal recovery.
The 2 don’t mix, one drives you back to the mix the other is
God’s fix.
Now you see the rabbit holding its spoonful of trix.
They lavished in burning the rabbit right after Easter.
Jacking God’s rabbit, saying hears your fear sir?
Have you ever jacked a Lion’s Rabbit, well hear its purr.
Come on make it roar, you always seem to want more.
Off to the races beating my horses upon a score.
Jack and Jill went up the hill, I wonder what they forgot to
spill?
All a game of a most despised thrill.
Pyro technics upon Springer’s of hectics.
When truth flows without it brings out the skeptics.
A Lion can ride his bike with no handle bars.
Right through your circus leaving you with nothing short of scars.
My rhythm doesn’t flow to any metronome.
I led a nation back over a paper doll of a microphone.
Rastafari I or I, Calling Jah’s way of purest Allibi.
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