They call me the smartest *****; they look at me like they would at Sauron.  Maybe I am just destined to be defined like an oxymoron, and also why do people shut their doors on me like I was a Mormon. Did I make the right choice when I took the blue pill and moved into Zion? Don’t know how to feel or who or what I should rely on. Bygones are bygones, got to follow the drill, so best not pull any funny ones. Being spied on, got no where to run, after all when your under a dictatorship there is no time for fun, there is only time to train one how to shoot a gun. Blang blam got a cross on fire on my lawn from the dreaded Ku Klux ****.  One extreme to another, what happened to Jesus’s teachings of how we are all heavenly sisters and brothers? **** the American dream; **** this apparent land of the free where anyone from anywhere can attain cream. Not a joke so turn this into a meme, this is serious if you only saw the things which some claim as the unseen.

Open your mind; don’t bind yourself to devilish things that appear kind. Charging up my chakra, hypnotizing you with my words like I’m the unclaimed child of Big Poppa. I am so waka I get yawl flocking to my flame, my bars aint **** yeah they as lit as Mary Jane. Bulking up like Bain, natural leader and I got a big brain. Some stalker ******* get so shady, thinking that I will spend my gravy, or that I will have their baby. Sorry I am not interested in getting rabies or taking a taste of your dead daisy. This is my loot; ***** the only thing I’ll give you is the boot. Scoot away from me, best stray by the bay before I write a restraining order on thee.  What is this world coming to? Harold be it that we stuck in a rut with a storm beginning to brew.  

People say I should stop drinking because I got family duties and responsibilities but I drink because I have to deal with the stress from family duties and responsibilities.  **** it all; **** my *****, better duck down because one punch and you’ll fall. Got the gall, Pokémon master man **** right I’m about to catch them all! I’m super and I like to smash bro, so better hide your ***** and your side **. Classically unclassified, mentally traumatized from a fall out of a genocide. Time to be unfiltered; rhyming from a heart that used to be good but now has been altered. Maybe I am just an oxymoron, just a sly fox that know how to survive because no matter what my hope for a better world will stay strong. I may live in this world but I am not of it, I may continue to give until I decide to say ah **** it! Isn’t it ironic? Isn’t the whole point of being a rapper to make a profit and strive to rap as fast as the speed of sonic? Let me puff some **** and drink till I’m subatomic. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Wouldn’t that be something if I chose to become like everyone else and live out a life of being toxic. So am I ironic or am I just an oxymoron? Don’t give a **** either way because I am iconic and will take anything you haters bring on!

The first time you hear a gunshot in person is a coming-of-age event. Where were you when you heard it? Standing behind your dad, wearing earmuffs and protective glasses while he showed you how to brace for the recoil of a 12 guage shotgun? Going into a shooting range to learn self defense and studying everyone else because you're too nervous to ask how you're supposed to stand or how you're supposed to hold it? On the street in the dark with your friends, walking through the rough part of the neighborhood to prove how big your sack was? Blam. Bright light. Blam. Total darkness. Blam. Bright light. Three shots. A total of 2.3 seconds has gone by. You are suddenly years older, because of how much those 2.3 seconds of time ages you. Your friend's injured. Blam. Get down. Blam. Go home. 1.8 seconds. Everything is silent now. The only sound is the ringing in your ears, followed by the peeling tires of the vehicle. Smoke hangs motionless in the air. In your head, in your room later that night, in the hospital to bring one of them poorly stated "Get well soon" cards and in the graveyard to bring the other one flowers, you only hear one sound. Blam. Four years later. Training on a range with soldiers. Have the drill sergeant scream in your face that you don't know what it's like to watch your best friend take a bullet in the battlefield. Compose yourself. Two years later, walking to work through the bad part of a different city. You already know it's going to happen. This time, it's not to you, or to anyone you know, but you hear it anyways and you think of the first time. Unfortunately, it's not the first time we all like to think about, which is usually a backseat, or your parents basement, or in the school bathroom, no, this one's a bang that's much less enjoyable. We're told not to talk about it. We live in fear of it. A constant fear. You start to feel unsafe where you live. Better go by a gun.