(Verse 1)
/Peaked, geeked, and tweaked, but what else is new/ late night writing to expel the truth/ People always asking what the hells with you? / I nod and respond, “What’s the hell with you?”/ I mean it’s gotta be something right/ And Lord knows that it’s gotta be nothing nice/ Such and such beefing, I beef with my state/ Beef with the government, I beef with my race/ Say am I Cherokee? Irish? English? Or German?/ Caucasian or White? And how am I certain?/ Which box do I check that certifies me a person?/ Why the fuck do I feel that this is all coercion/ Ah fuck it, it’s nothing, it’ll never be something/ I just grin and I bear it, young Theodore Ruxpin/ The Tommy Mottola of the Never Be Soldiers/ No likeness, the nicest, of the couldn’t be colder/ The composer of closure, the tail end of a nova/ Burnt out in a bag that is whiter than Sosa/ Red rover it’s over, I will never be sober/ The dopamine’s holding me, face next to the motor/ Ayo Chris, this cannot be healthy/ Mama, I’m a bum, I’m only character wealthy/ Kross, I’m a loss, dead weight on a anchor/ I mean, yeah I got bars, but they’re bars fulla rancor/ People don’t hear me, and if they do, then they shudder/ I’m offensive and I’m pensive, they just stare and they mutter/ World to Shannon Darlene, son, that’s word to my mother/It’s like they’d rather see me choke, stop, stammer, & stutter/ Feel like a misfit, like the Jerry Only/ Plus I’m a Junior as well, the weight of Terry’s on me/ The sins of the father, rain down as I ponder/ Sit somber and conjure, and keep a eye for the mamba/


(Hook)
/ Consume breath, use death, no idea of me/
/Two steps, goose neck, no identity/
/ Clue-less, who reps, my idea of me/
/Useless, Confucius, my identity/
/Bobby Seale spittin' ills, my idea of me/
/Bein’ broke with the chills, my identity/
/More than real but concealed, my idea of me/
/ Left field, as I build, my identity/


(Verse 2)
/Long for righteousness, lemme know it you catch it/ The plate’s comin’ round drop sum bills for collection/ Nibbling on some caps, to find the higher astral plain/ The fifth dimension, heaven, hell it grabs you all the same/ Just to peek behind the curtain, know for certain that its worth it/ Nay be a journey worthless, its all how you interpret/ But to see the inner-working and know I didn’t deserve it/ Would negate all of my purpose, and send me back to the service/ The Pastor & The Pulpit, The Deacons & The Heathens/ The blood of Christ substitute specially sweetened/ Judgments yet to come, yet I have to see them through/ But does God have a bracelet asks, “What Would Jesus Do?”/ Meditate on that/ I don’t claim a religion, I’m just one of his children/ Another made in his image tryna find some forgiveness/