CYCLES

[Intro: R.A.P Ferreira]
It was gonna be a big summer, you know, a big summer
Every one since then too, "a big summer"
"Gonna be a big summer"
Yet, somehow that's never the case, is it?
It's the sprawl of autumn, isn't it?
It's the crunch, where one can never daytrip
You know living myths can come true
Sometime it might happen to you, especially if you live outside of time
Anyway, the rhyme you are about to hear isn't true
But, it isn't false either
Any resemblance between this rhythm poetic exploration and reality is
Purely magical, purely magical

[Verse 1: R.A.P Ferreira]
At the end of the world, we was fightin' back with brushes and pens
We decided that the suffering should end, no matter how good it feels
Wooden shields ain't stoppin' bullets
So we dropped those, quit lyin' to ourselves
Started writin' poems, got stronger by ourselves
Kinship bein' the hunger that we felt, so we trusted that
Made moves from it
Got busted backs, bruised stomachs
Ruby yacht, whole crew illustrious
We did those stints, tenures, benders, bent censures, spent ledgers
Unyielding, a taste of they own medicine
Every member is also president
How could you stop what you can't clock, hmm?

(If within the last century, art conceived as an autonomous activity has come to be invested with an unprecedented stature. The nearest thing to a sacramental human activity acknowledged by secular society. It is because one of the tasks art has assumed is making forays into and taking up positions on the frontiers of consciousness and reporting back what's there. Being a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers, the artist gains a certain license to behave differently. Matching with singularity of the vocation. They may be decked out with a suitably eccentric lifestyle, or not. Their job is to invent trophies of experience.)

[Verse 2: R.A.P Ferreira]
But things go backwards, the wrong people get placards
You get a collection of spatulas, heavy brow lines
Sacrificing down time for the wrong guys' good graces
Shoulda held them aces and betted on self
Eventually we're all just heads on a shelf
Trophies in cupboards, mopey customer
Doping up for a big day again, really it bores me
We're the stuff that's so boring, hijacking stories
Sapping the gold from the blood
Mogg swore they from mud
Be the first ones to judge

Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work
Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth
Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work
Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth
Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work
Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth
Swear I just know my worth
Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work
Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth
Funny how cycles work

[Outro: R.A.P. Ferreira]
Peace to the eternal spirit and soul of the grandmaster Jack Whitten. An idea is a work of art. From Chicago, Illinois to Bessamer, Alabama. An idea is a work of art
Peace, peace, peace, peace