Goldteeth Will Roll

What is this place?
These men?
With gold where their words break and they end.
Their time keeping nothing but stones and fool gold.
Stones worth the weight of ten working-class winners
Leading kids to the skull in their wish
If there was one.

What is this place?
Where greed came in to all the mouths
Like empty does the chest
And spoke nothings in the pitch of street
And the worn heart of a hound,
A dim machine twitching in the chest of potential
Hidden beneath the scar tissue strength a bar bell built.

Who will come kill me
When I call these men milk made of weak,
Fat with numb as they dish dung to the hunger?
It is an echo of yourself in the world that you're hearing them yell.

Who will come kill me,
Taking their rings off like women,
Because I will swear on their weakness?
They are the gun sons of what's done.
Latter day knights,
Weakened at the bone with the weight of their poor words.
A lot of riskless nights turning a coin around in their throats.
Lips leaking the poison
Eating at the honor of rap.
Forcing the blood from the coming of kids,
From the future of things,
So they are starved for the gristle of meaning.
That which can be gnash between teeth and never ate.
Only passed.

So I call them.
I call them lambs to the lion they steal from.
And sick my pen on their thinnest of ghost.
And no, they don't wake and take bullets with water like vitamins.
Even savage with mornings dagger the side of their face with the rising son.

No, they sleep hard in the silk thicket
And the cured skin of the scared and spent.
And I know they will be but ribs in the dirt.
The sound of their songs becoming muds in a landfill.
Eyes filled with a crowd of maggots.

And the young go numb to the played bones of your weakness.
Across the only wants of what's done.
Gangster of trifles,
Throw out your gold teeth and see how they roll.
Licking your wounds in a white king's lap.
Falling in love with all guns.

For rappers, there is no Hell.
There is only fans.
And you will go there.
And you will be cut from the cave where your words sour
To the edge of your ears and then strung
And then made to move with the grace of what's puppet
'Til you're cut from the cave where your words sour
To the soles of your feet and then fed through a fire to the dusk of what's done.
To the absence you grew circa your birth
And the death.
Your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud.
Jewelry loose on your bones.
Like you were on your meaning.