“Spice” (A1)

You know what they wanna hear: pressed play,
eyes closed, and suddenly…a gun appears. Head
lifted outta smoke from imaginary blunts for air. Turn
all that hardcore rappin down, fam, cuz you got your little brother scared.
I ain’t unaware: I know my flow’s a throne for loops.
Lettin me stand in the cipher’s like givin Shaq an open hoop.
He retired ten years after the last time you told the truth.
No excuse is worth valuing lives less than stolen suits.
They cloned the golden goose and hid the formula.
Heard you on camera beggin for eggs, and then ripped your orders up.
I’m just hopin for a future that isn’t coated in mortar dust,
as we all dyin slowly, mournin how Father Time orphaned us.
A fortune of embarrassments. Plot twist: the good guys
are terrorists, crushin the neediest under their heritage,
and everyone you tryna kick out the country’s the real Americans.
To the victors go the spoils, but the losers spun the narratives.
If some things weren’t so harmful, they’d be hilarious.
White kids always wanna blame our flaws on what our parents did.
Armchair pundits keep up appearances. Have a nice plate of poison
and a beer with it. Pretendin the reflection in their mirror
Fits, knowin that they’re scared to glimpse the arrogance, and
no matter how old they get they steady cryin for their carriages.

Some big-ass babies, man…

“Steam” (A2)

A couple hunnid thousand deaths, each cost bout a pound a breath. Bail out
who they can, then drown the rest. The floodin waters you hearin ain’t a sound effect.
Know the fix is in and they ain’t counted yet. The game is rigged when the house can bet.
How quick the white rappers in the crowd forget, til our timelines cloud with death.
Askin for grace that our memories failed. They sendin us hail and we dancin for rain.
Trapped on this plane by the edge of our tail. Devils inhale and the exodus pain.
Temperatures change, and suddenly roofs and foundations are waves.
Surgical hands on our faces and names, the ways that they operate dated and stained.
The piece of humanity data disdains, tables of food that they wasted away,
evictiin a family straight into rain, claimin that they shouldn’t wait to be paid.
Veins made of paper. There’s blood in the bill.
Their prisons just luggage to fill.
Killers in public with drills
grantin supremacists coverage and shields.
Gassin they engine and pumpin the wheels.
You either the truck or the bug in the grill.
Tradin your shame and your number for pills.
Faces turn plastic at public appeals.
The pain is imagined or numbin your will.
A train at the end of the tunnel that squeals.
Stumblin away or becomin its meal. The
steam isn’t muzzled, it tumbles and peels.
Mirage in the distance. I’ll run til it’s real.

Even the sun isn’t bright as it was.
Even the sun, even the sun…
Even the sun isn’t bright as it was.
Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun…
Even the sun isn’t bright as it was.
Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun…
Even the sun isn’t bright as it was.
Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun…
Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun...
Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun...