State of the Art

[IntrinsicCadence]

He could’a been an innovative mentor,
but the money made him run into a trap door.
now what’s this cat rap for? /
but’a course he would’a said a lie in reply
if the facts were to crash on his benefactor.
for without the backin’ of the assets
he would’a never passed as a craftsman,
just a passing fashion.
But imagine what he could’a been
if he felt the passion of the art./
With detachment he coulda been a spark
but his heart was attached to the mask that he wore.
The cash that he rapped for become his master,
and he slaved for the image of the name that he bore.
but the fame would eventually fade
while his core would forever be stained
by the forces of vain fortified in his brain,
but the tides they can change if he rises his aims
and strives to gain new wiser ways
that defy the frame he contrived for the game./
who’d a thought he would’a had a will to change?
Little things could(a) widdled away his aims.
this path would demand that he masters a plan
that his past would’a laughed at.
All the fat cats than flee from the scene
with the green that they pack fast like a fiend./
He’d have to endeavor to advance his efforts
or risk being caught in the stream.
He had danced with the devil but never did he lead,
now inevitably he’d proceed on his own,
indeed he’d need to grow and learn the roads,
though his bridges were burned to the ashes in an urn
and the matches would return to attack his every turn.
His respect could be earned by actions, not only words,
So he taps in to the BACKSPIN to reflect on the past when
his tasks would adapt to the cash flow,
back when money woulda shown even if he didn’t pass go.
Now what he beholds is nothing but a void in his soul./
The toy that employed his time was a poison of kinds,
a boisterous rhyme with the voice of a crime
that he hoisted upon the unfortunate spawns
that conformed to the cons he would speak.
His choice was to reach to the bottom of the beat
to make a model of the mean mug pedigree.
The love that he held in his deeps
had to be kept back from the image he was livin in.
The venom that he spit was wholly counterfeit,
expressed only for his own dough’s benefit./
This cat rapped for the money, women, and weed,
he had lost touch with the reality of the streets,
so he stepped back and suddenly he could see
when he backtracked he was covered in nothin’ but greed/
but now he was ready to flee from the settings he’d seen
so he readied his deeds to turn from this petty disease.
Material things had meddled with his better seeds
and never did they bring him peace
rather just a battle with his individuality./
The causalities of this canopy were left unseen
to the rest of the world, but his stress was unfurled
in his text that had burrowed
to the depths of irrelevance
and never did he give a shit
until he met the truth of what he did./
What he said would ripple through the heads
of the simple citizens
who would never sift what they were fed./
Ripple through the head (echoes...)/
His gift was to peddle dread
to the one’s who couldn’t see red,
but he missed what he could’a been
when he went away from what he bled.
He lived within the wars of what he said,
only when he saw the money in his pen.
He had once been a better friend
to the people, it was evident,
but his ego was immersed in his dividends./
So when he finally searches for the severed limbs
of his heavenly skeleton
he'll need to go to the ends of the earth to ascend within./
(He is hip-hop and this is the state of the art,
but it ain't fated to depart, it's alive and lives in the hearts of us who've felt it's spark)

-- Sun Aug 29, 2010 12:06 pm --

Is this just too long for people to comment on or what? I thought ya'll would enjoy the story form of this flow.