Exile

[Scratches]
“I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train
It’s dope then you should know the supplier’s name”
“Syd city on” “Home sweet home
My nine-to-five grind seems to go by slow”
“With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror?
The world is looking shady, and the future's no clearer, so”
“Runaway train of thought, my sore knuckles say
Love and hate, huffing shakes straight till I suffocate”
“With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror?
The world is looking shady, and the future no clearer”
“I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train"

[Verse 1: Nick Lupi]
She said, "I gotta get away from it"
Dreams of an escape from it
Won't let this city get another day from her
Takes solace in the cloak of night, like grave robbers (Uh)
Scanning every face, an enemy of the state
Watches the world around her in a steady decline (Yeah)
Detached from it all, yet her mind is heavy, uh
Cartographers couldn't sketch the lines
Of the place she's going, nah, they'll never find her
Death styles of the young and the beautiful
Nightclub cubicles, cocaine cuticles
But the glitter don't soothe her soul
She feels lost like Rufio, waiting for a cue to go
She might've found it, plays it loud
Until it drowns it out, and the neighbours come around
This is something that you should know
Projectiles for the dutiful, Exile: soon, she'll go

[Scratches]
“I operate on a higher plane, my thoughts take a higher train
It’s dope then you should know the supplier’s name”
“Syd city on” “Home sweet home
My nine-to-five grind seems to go by slow”
“With no respect, how could you look up in the mirror?
The world is looking shady, and the future's no clearer, so”
“Runaway train of thought, my sore knuckles say
Love and hate, huffing shakes straight till I suffocate”

[Verse 2: Jimmy Nice]
Yeah, he said, "I gotta break
Free from this head of mine to where the stars
And the road up ahead align", food's good, weather's fine
There's no time like the present (Right)
And despite the many times he tried to pay it, they never mind
He's wearing thin like the set of tyres under him
Stop signs he pass shine bright like his petrol light
Cartographers couldn't sketch the lines
Of the place he's going, nah, they could never find him
Demoted from heaven, promoted from hell
For thought crime, do his time all alone in a cell
Sees it all from his windowsill, lights up with the devil
Blows smoke halos with an L
He needs a one-way flight to bring him back to life
Pad and pencil, gather essentials, pack light
The irony of pitch-black skies on a Sunday
I'ma get up outta here one day