| You shouldn’t holler if you hear me |
| You should holler if you don’t |
| So the knowledge, it’ll steer me 'til I’m searing through your pulse |
| If you follow on me clearly, then you better listen close |
| I’m hollow as a theory of a man who sees ghosts |
| Appearing with a fury, but it’s nothing he can hold |
| See, when a shell’s hollow and you stretch skin across |
| Hands beat it down and the drums starts to talk |
| The average city crow grows cold and unfolds into a black hawk |
| And all the alley cats and rats getting picked off |
| Plus all the trash that they live is 'bout to kiss God |
| I treasure cleanliness. Been living with my junkie dogs |
| Who find it hard in their heart to give a fuck at all |
| Just got a penalty and still ain’t touched the fucking ball |
| It makes me wonder do I really want to play at all? |
| But if I quit that’d be a kiss on every haters' jaw |
| And that’s never been the way I ever played at all |
| Stayed up late, woke up later and I made this song |
| And Sense had left the beat laying in the crate forgot |
| Went to China with his family while I just watched |
| Over the house like the mouse that you never caught |
| Always around but I hide cause I’m better off |
| You might catch me in the kitchen then I’m dead of course |
| Unless you’re scared and I run from your deadly force |
| But all I really want is something like a crumb of yours |
| And in exchange I’ll say what’s hidden in between the doors |
| See the walls don’t talk, but I do reports |
| I could tell you where this music is moving toward |
| Grabbed the beers and the blunts from the corner store |
| And dived straight into the crates on its own accord |
| And cracked every written book just to know the score |
| Sat in silence just to learn what the writing’s for |
| I try to smile but the child is always wanting more |
| The old man always sleeps and only wants to snore |
| And I’ve risen out the grave on my accord |
| Still I’m caged by the pain, but I’m due reward |
| For all the bounties on the heads, that’s what I’m shooting for |
| I don’t want to win a battle just to lose the war |
| I’m up the river trying to paddle back to home court |
| Black Cadillac running on a half-quart |
| And I’m a make it on the fumes, since you asked for it |
| BLS, heart and soul to the marrow bone |
| Black crow feather of the tribe |
| We gon' carry on |
| We gon' carry on |
| BLS, heart and soul to the marrow bone |
| Black crow feather of the tribe |
| We gon' carry on |
| We gon' carry on |
| BLS, heart and soul to the marrow bone |
| Black crow feather of the tribe |
| We gon' carry on |
| We gon' carry on |