get on up, hustler of culture.
I stand on the corner of the block slinging amethyst rocks,
drinking 40s of mother earth's private nectar stock,
dodging cops, cuz' 50 be the 666 and I need a fix of that purple rain:
the type of shit that drives membranes insane.
Oh yeah, I'm in the fast lane snorting candy yams
that free my body and soul and send me like Shazaam,
never question who I am. God knows, and I know God personally,
infact he lets me call him "me",
I be one with rain and stars and things
with dancing feet and watermelon rings,
I brings the sunshine and the moon,
and the wind blows my tune.
Meanwhile I spoon powdered drumbeats into plastic bags,
selling kilos of kintae skag, taking drags off of collards
and cornbread, freebasing through saxophones and flutes like mad.
The high notes make me space-float,
I be exhaling in rings that circle Saturn,
leaving stains in my veins in astrological patterns.
Yeah I'm serious B, doggone niggers plotted shit lovely,
but the feds is also plotting me,
they're trying to imprison my astrology,
put my stars behind bars, my stars and stripes,
using blood-splattered banners as nationalist kites,
but I control the wind, that's why the call it the hawk.
I am Horus, son of Isis, son of Osirus, worshipped as Jesus,
resurrected like Lazarus, but you can call my Lazzy, lazy,
yeah I'm lazy because I'd rather sit and build
and work on top of a field and worship the
daily yield of cash green crops,
your evolution stopped the evolution of your technology:
a society of automatic tellers and money machines.
Nigga' what, my culture is lima beans and tambourines,
dreams, manifest dreams real, not consistent with rationale,
I dance for no reason, for reason you can't dance,
call me an activist of intellectualized circumstance,
you can't learn my steps until you unlearn your thoughts,
spirit, soul, can be store-bought, fuck thought,
leads to naught, simply leads to you trying to figure me out,
your intellect's disfiguring your soul,
your being's not whole, check your flagpole,
stars and stripes, your astrology's
imprisoned by your concept of white, of self,
what's your plan for spiritual health? Calling reality unreal,
your line of thought is tangled, the star
spangled got your soul mangled, your being's angled,
forbidding you to be real and feel, you can't find truth
with an axe or a drill in a white house on a hill or
in factories or plants made of steel. Selling us was the
smartest thing you ever did, too bad you don't teach the
truth to your kids. My influence on user reflection you
see when you look in your minstrel mirror and talk about
your culture, your existence is that of a schizophrenic
vulture who thinks he has enough life in him to prey on the dead,
not knowing that the dead ain't dead, that he ain't got enough
spirituality to know how to pray. Yeah, there's no repentance,
you're bound to live in infinite consecutive executive life sentence.
So while you're busy serving time I'll be in sync with the
moon while you run from the sun. Life of the moon,
reflected by guns, worship of moons, I am the sun,
and I am public enemy number one, one one one, one one one,
that's seven. And I'll be out on the block, hustling culture,
slinging amethyst rocks.
-Saul Williams
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