(Chorus)
Standing in the pitch-black shadow of the colossus
is yet another enigmatic madman up in that office/
Obviously conscious of his actions and involvements
wit the wrong & right walks of life, planning the impossible/
He's had enough of crash-landing in the hospital,
a history of injury and damage to the body so/
the doctors told the man that he must manage alcoholism
before his organs turn morbidly rancid and the coffin is his
final, destination
enough wit the pills inducing
spinal, degradation
enough wit the writing of rhymes
comprised of, self-abasement
enough wit the negative, on wit the
positive; escalation


(BRIDGE)
whats up wit the weed? what's up wit
Inadequate financial institutions infused wit
smack abusin consumers subdued in rancid solutions,
confused about the veiws of useless and inanimate
news casters and their fancy, handy-dandy camera crews?
dammit, i guess you're misunderstanding the message I'm sending.
So I'm gonna simply simplify this message in pending.
There's these far too rich old farts who bitch
so hard, their cold hearts stop when losin two cents.
And while these muthafuckas are believing they're above us,
You and me -- we the people -- we be reaching for the rug that is
beneath their feet. Complete the vice-grip, give it a tug then,
Kick back, relax & see their fat ass tumblin!
They react to that actin madder than Adam when,
Eve took the massive bite outta the apple,
or when Anakin was panicked on the planet of fire,
chokin Amidala, callin her an adamant "liar".
Cameras focus on him and,
All of his dishonesty,
The crowd wraps around him tighter than a Durex condom be.
Hella flashes in an epileptic fashion,
clashin wit his inability to give answers back.

(Verse)
Diabolical, improbable, illogical.
Right brain splittin atoms, halogens and molecules.
When I wake up, it's cafe americano.
Chop some instrumentals like my mamma chop cilantro.
I find,
hydro,
Every where that I go.
You tellin me "It's bad to smoke"? Shut your fuckin pie-hole.
I keep my RK charted on the pie-o:
99% style, 1% inciteful.
I'm so,
hooked on hydroponic phonix, my flows,
focus in on heavy drums just bangin on like tyco.
Everytime the lights go,
out I dream of movie-seein,
comfy seatin, sippin gin 'n' juice at the Kabuki Theatre.
Stanley Kuberick film critiquing till I die slow.
Mystery-Man hidden like a missle launching silo.
One-quarter Kenyan, three-quarters white snow.
Find me runnin FAST from a pistol packin psycho.

(VERSE 2)
We so stoned, we some rollin boulders,
Yung Davis rollin rotary cuffs and throwin shoulders.
Smokin potent rope-a-dope in slow motion while I'm
pokin hocus-pocus coke-hoes wit glowsticks.
Flowin like the ocean, yo we keepin focus
pedal to the metal, yea we goin for the goldest.
Nuggests look like Yoda,
It's cold as North Dakota,
Sippin a cup of that folgers, got it hotter than Sonoma,
YEAH I GOT SOME COLD CUTS!
Smokin on some dojer,
that shit that'll make you fold up while you sittin up on the sofa,
Smokin it up from The Sco to Tacoma to Oakland, California.
Changin location, stay bakin,
tokin that marijuana.
Finna get lit, burn up, turn up!
Split it up, fill it up wit the durban
herb or whatever the fuck you servin,
as long as the service is blunts and bourbon.
I'm takin shots of tonic/Vodka, i'm burpin,
regurgitatin pasta sauce, slurrin words & i'm gurpin,
I'm mergin flame wit Cali chronic, it's the purplest urkle,
emergin wasted in the mornin in a person's Sububan, I'm hurlin;
Vomitin prominant vowls and consonants, man I'm
mobbin it back to my house, throbbin & half-throttlin,
and,
it's readn 20 degrees on the thermometer.
All across Seattle, it's freezin. I'm 3 kilometers
deep in the long walk. It's tough breathin in heavy cold,
Never have I ever fuckin seen so much yellow snow.

(Chorus)

Final, destination(x8)



THE END