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money​/​abstract juxtaposition

from reality and other falsehoods by (nahhphet as) budz

/

lyrics

...It aint all about the money...

(Chorus:)

It aint all about the money y'all
the quest for lucci got you acting funny all day
I smell decay and hear the crooning of you vultures,
we do this for the music and the culture...

(Money:)

I juxtapose my flows to wack shit,
You'd fit the mold of rows to get the golden rose,
the fuck is that shit? Yo
I thought you learned your lesson from Perverted Monks
but still you're acting like a hoe and searching for the funds, yuck..

I said we do this for we, and not the paper, bruh;
Supposed to be feeding the Mother Earth instead of raping her,
and penning paper for the flavor,
instead of fiending for the paper while we labor;
You'd dull the teeth of gators to acquire ranges painted Now
and Later, the sayer of the wisdom turned creator of an image
while your lust for links that glisten steady tainted all your sentence..uhh

Forgot to mention bruh,
you're fronting bars and probably far from hard 'cuz all of y'all is part Fig Newton...

So loosen up,
you and your team of shooters moving cook...
Get with the truth and uhh,
bump that real shit... bump that smooth shit... and it sounds a little something like:

(Abstract juxtaposition:)

It's cinematic when I utter butter.
A sin of habit:
pen is colored with a blend of that which ends where it begins,
so Ouroboros-like I'm soaring through the orbit, flight,
explore the light that's infinite - cyclic - when I'm ripping it.
Spitting with the simpleness,
but riddle sits unwieldy on the space of thought
for minds that race a lot
for sake of nature, or the face of those in paces caught.
Mistake is oft erased if you just sift the space around it for allowance;
more abounds in core of sounds, in forests pouncing like the panther -
Shouts to Bagheera; my brother Mogli; to Malcolm; shouts to Kira;
Shouts to those that hold me down in present tense.
Effervescent scent of blessings went with him wherever skin of calloused feet would took him:
Book in hand, looking grand, until I stand in Central Booking, bummy man.
A cunning plan, but couldn't stand the hand of meddling kids,
I skeleton you fakers peddling fibs,
my verse's made to hit like metal to ribs...
Before I come with horsemen, better settle your sins,
I'm kettle of tin; don't watch me or I'll never boil kin...

¿ How you gonna be royal when...

(Chorus) ?

credits

from reality and other falsehoods, released November 11, 2014

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nahhphet Los Angeles, California

Puppeteer of nonsense words and phrases. Journeyman wind magician & marginally upright honkey. Matriarch and thoughtsmith-errant of the Ubiquitous Love Tribe. Educator, storyteller, collagist, producer...

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