Perched on a cracked crate, vinyls underneath offer a balance and fortitude to my throne.
I command the smallest kingdom of principles with a Fidelian legislature exiling pitiful pitbulls and pathetic pigs to Miami shores.
It is an awkward throne of anonymity doused with the respect of those that set close to read at the barriers of my creativity.
Borders often bombed by 1nce-real-eez that leave me and my Pals from Stuy to Gunset brownstines stress depressed gazing strips of ol’ Boom Bap nostalgia.
Still, the king’s word is bond. Born for the masses that barter in skill and trade in the sustenance of principle.
My pen prevails in prophecy even as blatant builds become blasphemy the moment I publish.
Maker of the verse letters,
owner of the break texts,
cream of the song sage scrolls,
Father of the elements’ genetics,
God of the universe.
Sun ez Arm Leg Leg Arm Head.
And the distilling of the empire’s riches are on permanent pause
because unheeded plus lessons pack journals of wood to surround the crown as a stake.
At stake for a music’s sake, I ever burn as a silenced martyr,
words of note on the most paramount of Art
#ArtOnArt that survives Art for an hour more
Til the next pop champ is lit from
my flames fatally fomented and funneled by fakes.
But ashes are wasted aspects of my ideas.
They only collect as the grimy that grits my next passages to endlessly be
A lettered guerilla.
Alas, the throne is also where I write and fight.
You gon know who the Original Hip Hop Writer is.
Square up sellout…
Post Script. Allah, himself.