We’re living in the age of the microchip,
To think real life is like those flicks.
We used to watch where the doc was working for the villain to insert shit into your fingertips.
The danger is, those flicks desensitized us to the ideas it could exist.
Well done Spielberg & Lucas a theory conspired.
I don’t know, in the pudding the proof is,
But who reads the labels of what they eat.
So the readers digest, just what they speak.
But who’s they, bigger than the monotheistic belief.
That the man is controlling the axes of e-vil,
& still all the masses believe, that a masked thief, makes all the madness & grief. We endure, so we indulge ourselves in the idea that wealths the cure, & further more, less ain’t more no more.
We assess success like herbivores, More green, more esteem & clout to liberate us from that twenty four hourly bout.
Better known as the day to day struggle, no escape from to make one you got to hustle, & that’s where the mistake comes, the tussle.
Between fiendn’ out for the dream or the puzzle.
That perplexed minds since the beginning of time, Why are we here, do we really have free will. Are we gods, god like or beast still.
Did the pharaohs even have it right, in two thousand years, you’d think that we would learn. Can’t take what you earn to the afterlife.
Place it in a urn, the body burns liberated from the ideology that to have we like, more than life itself. Man builds rockets to go to the moon but can’t lend hands to the needy in help.
It’s them type moves that forever ensure that war glooms.
Like a tomb where the battle was held to tell the tale how men turned heaven to hell. Oh well, oh well, you know me well.
A common story I came from the bottom to the well.
Not quite the top so exaggeration I’m trying to sell.
So since we’re building my problems I’m from the basement.
No, not my sound, my surroundings, astounding if you found how we dwell.
Streets are filled with complacent minimum wages.
But faking as if their making the maximum & it’s breaking their pockets cause uncle sam is just taxing them, & their pockets frail. Yet the streets are unpaved, still the road is rough. Not for motors but their motives, exposed to black kettle & pot-holes, that just be closing up.
So hold that though, Imagine having an accent that would band you for askin' for a job. You’d react & hold that torch, & burn down opportunities door, the politics of classism is infused with the poor.
That’s condusive for a movement or more, that’s a soon to be war.
Not sure we’re living in a paradise, more like a resort unaware of life,
We alright, we alright, we alright.
