The beat of the street ain’t too sweet, but it’s what I call a home.
You don't get, from the factory, a satisfactory life when you’re just a drone.
Wonder why I’m wild, ‘styled and thinkin’, winkin’? Well that’s cuz I’m free.
Vibranni are supposed to have their color, not another. I gotta be me.
They call me a bleedin’ demon. Existence is treason, didn’t you know?
I’ve seen you give up, blend in, shut up, lend in your life for no—
Time or home to really call your own — just rent, all unpayable debts,
When or if you do collapse, the moguls already placed their sick bets.
They tell us, without a doubt that obedience, reverence, deference is might,
And that technocracy, the clock and key, still mockin’ me, is always right.
They say it’s a grand nation, but raytion your water and your life,
I’ve played by their rules and schools, no more for this knife—
Eared peer of societal scorn, born in the wrong part of town,
On the wrong ground. I can’t return to the sound—
Of the desert cuz our cousins roamin’ are groanin’ we’re tained.
Plaintiff dismissed in the case of being not wanted in the least.
No trial, no court, just a bobby tellin’ you to get off the street, beast,
Hittin’ the ground just to meet an early day, another shift bereft of all craft,
An earnest day’s work can’t exist, ceased to persist, it’s got the shaft.
So again, I say “I gotta be me.” “But, I gotta eat and drink,” I hear you say.
“Can’t be protestin’, gettin’ arrest an’ all messed in that with a familay?”
Well that’s true, and we’ve all got issues, don’t diss what you sayin’ now,
So let me rant, but at least join in the chant, things need to improve somehow.
An’ if this was amiss to you until now, that’s my what, that’s my why and our how.
This MC is to be, the voice of those without choice, making noise, BOOM and POW.
Spread the news of demon’s blues. We know we are used, in terms most explicit,
Why else would we be cordoned off into slums, labeled bums of Mayberry district.