the bastard son i spit non fictionnin exile for a while now with raw frictionnnever be a pawn the boomerang be upon youni'm like Fela with my heart in Venezuelanits a world favela so fuck the novelani'm out of the cellar with a blade and some cheddarnfor the whole new world order you to bow downnto the now sound of slavery the era benterrible terror filled terrifiednwhy would we ever let a few white christian fiction'snshape our tomorrow followers themncause tomorrow got a gun to its headnntime is comingnrising like the dawn of a red sunnif you fear dying then you're already deadnni'm in with the spirit of Ali Tourénas I target more heads than a priest on ash wednesdaynpaid and hungry you pigs on gold ropesnhave the mic or the heater but you can't hold bothnyou could snatch one and catch the blast of the otherni'm Chicano soprano high off my pitch ammoni'm a put a crack in your diamond pimp cupnso vest up i'm your cross turned right side upni'm the press leak that downed you aideni'm the orange jump suit thats taylor madeni'm the crescent, the sickle, so sharp the bladeni'm the flick of the shank that opened your veinsni'm the dusk, i'm the frightening calmni'm a hole in the pipeline i'm a road side bombnntime is comingnrising like the dawn of a red sunnif you fear dying then you're already deadn