Rhymebook Poem by Malevolent M.c

Chorus - Nas/Scratching

Verse 1
Consumption is my purpose, really it's my need, Programmed in my soul, the American dream.
Purchase Machine, no screams it seems would dilute or mislead the fact that i am pleased with a 5 letter word spelled greed - that defines me.
Who would i be if need not be 1st on my list of complex things, Own and ipod and a playstation 3
watch my hi-def dvd's on my hdtv. Bling it out now shiny, so everybody can see, look at me, look at me, wont you look at me please?
We follow like sheep, try to be same differently, texting while driving, phone in hand neccesity.
A priority to seek existance through the scene, now it's all agreed that you need to be conceded to suceed, though all you do is really Exceed when everyone else around just stops to look an recede, leaving you vulnerable, just for your guarantee, that someday at anytime you'll be crowned kings or queen
Burned by the products, scorching 1000 degrees shooting through your system, like one hit of speed, Acting only lethargic, with the luxery of having 16 different ways to get high off of this weed. These epihanies proceed to grab and grip my brain's, leaving me shook, having these slave throw me a page in my rhymebook.


Chorus - Nas/Scratching

Verse 2
We be A-M-E-R-I-C-A, land of the free slaves, and the indoctrinated brave, the home of the people where after 9/11, we never forgave the problems that we made, rulers wanted more money, came to invade 4013 dead today, explosions from grenades, perpetual death, that numbers the latest update.
I am an exemplar, a templar of this crusade deceptive to everyone born before this decade.
Home of the brave, un-ironically everyone is afraid to convey the feelings their faces eagerly display, so instead they just pray to a 'god of gods'
That we claim to be regardless of the odds will forgive the all sins commited by our race,
Thrown in a rage, those raised in place where crime is everyday, not as fortunate as those classified 'born to get paid'.
Life works like a maze when each day is a cage, confined to the lifestyle of those acting on stage. When you work someone to death, who is it that you save? How is it that we gauge the number of the kids with nothing on their plates, and the homeless adults without any home to stay?
These epiphanies engage to grab and grip my brain's, leaving me shook. It seems i have America to thank, because i'm becoming a slave to the pages of my rhymebook.


Chorus - Nas/Scratching