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letra de spoken for (remix) - soarse spoken

[verse 1: so-rs- spoken]
a formidable foe. conformity’s comfortable
y’all sacrificed content for a more diggable flow
we’re all sick of your ho. act as a model citizen
popping bottles of hollow medicine—betcha these shots’ll let ‘em in
ease that, let the beat lapse
a mic’s a wife to an emcee, so why’s y’alls giving you feedback?
gather the crowd and move them—i’m a smooth cat
who only loses his cool when the crowd doesn’t groove back
transmit lyrical transit. rhymes are an oasis placed in a sand pit
y’all wanted in on the game but you can’t fit
‘cause i’m a monster in heat, pondering deep
rotten from the devils conquering me
so stay patient. these radio waves communicated
through a radio slave station. your heartrate’s racing
the sound is straight bas-m-nt. a polished lecture
my platoon carries canteens for the knowledge nectar
from a fruit with a solid texture for those doubting scriptures
a picture’s worth a thousand words, but my word’s worth a thousand pictures
you fountain l!cks are earth works with a mountain mixture
guerilla music warfare. bring the sound, the most
the more vicious the flow, the more rare
and i’m a creature in habit, blazing
here to speak to a savage nation
i provide plenty food for thoughts, so feed your imagination

[verse 2: cise star]
folding you n-ggas in my soldier state, setting the stage for war
with air force ones, i’m walking through kuwait
bulletproof bubble jackets, using my desert tactics
camouflage to my toes, trigger finger spastic
heavy in streets like 24s on box chevies
i rock steady on motherf-ckers who ain’t ready
you swishers sweet. i’m philly-blunt, so, “what the f-ck?”
i’m dollar with mine—yo b-tch–ss, nickel up
the sign of the times—look at the dark skies
is it money or politics? what’s your reason for rhyme, n-gga?

[verse 3: akin]
i’m not content with they style they boast. and, so, i approach
the mic with a fighter’s ghost—spirit on my shoulder, older
wise and now i learn to be a soldier. you’re a street soldier
phony emcees, your acting days are over
poof. but gone, you’re not one to hear—look
you not a real revolutionary—you’s a punk crook
for hire. my voice over drum inspire
a young n-gga to scream out, “we’re living in fire”
grab your gun for war now—we marching as one
yo, the drummer boy toy with a beat—that’s fun but hard
my face scarred, though i’m ready for more
a refugee far from home—yo, let’s settle the score
i cannot tire, fight ‘til my words expire
out of my mouth, i shout to the peasant empire
young boys with they pants sagging
they probably bragging in cyphers
they relayin’ rhymes—tongues are magnums
but only if you knew the might of your own words
you gotta let ’em be, be free—one with the birds
moving in motion, see hypocrites approaching
tryna figure me out just to get me open
and break me down. it’s too late—they woke me now
i’m feeling like marx—they hate to embrace me now
those days are gone of wondering what’s gon’ happen
believing in bush or running with the likes of sharpton. yo
f-ck that! believing in god, then trust that
they bust at. better bust back—it’s on, n-ggas

[verse 4: cise star]
fire walk with me as i burn holes in the soles of your new kicks
come on, n-gga, i’m going on
walking down the dirty streets and avenues
i battle you, a duel to the death, ’cause i’m mad at you
not in the physical sense but on the defense
of the current events that showed your true nature
hate to love ya but love to hate ya
b-tch, i make you want to go see your maker
not violent but already excited
fist in the air, i go spark the riot
if you want to try me, come hither and try it
behold the bold soul that stay strong, relying

[verse 5: omniscient]
i come through in a drop top limo like kennedy
protected but not if the shooters is walking right next to me
check it. it was all a dream like martin luther
getting bucked overseas and, at the corner, you find the same shooter
all for different causes, all with different bosses
stabbing n-ggas with they crosses—god finding corpses
20 dollar spliffs up in the air
you know it’s dead vision when there’s nothing in the stare
but it’s all in the walk, the talk—we do our thing
it’s time i take action to the plan and to the ring
consistent with the jab, get the hit fix, rippin’ ’em
we paying for the war, raise tax, and keep gyppin’ ’em
it’s all good ’cause you n-ggas keep it all hood
except you f-cking your own hood and that’s not good
just do the math and you won’t get the right answer
we’re doing surveilance while you getting watched like plasma

- soarse spoken

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