I Was In Amsterdam Writing This

Yo, what’s good? It’s O’hene
I want y’all to take a journey with me right now
R.I.P. Dilla

I wrote this verse to a beat Dilla played in my sleep
The words the wounded Pac wasn’t able to speak
These are the notes ‘trane wasn’t able to reach
‘cause inside of the beat, King’s posthumous speech
We are the living dead if it isn’t clear
We sipping air but the spirit being isn’t there
We live in fear while the merchant depletes our fields
Hip-hop being the crop, the street got yields
Our seeds got killed in the worst erosion
We traded our souls and composed commotion
And motion is lost in the rigid digital
When it be original, the origin of you
To blame our [?] minuscule
Rappers are fools, even in their interviews
The bigger picture take us back to the schools
Where they propagate lies to belittle you
In principle, we supposed to be the principal but we joined the school play turned minstrel show
It’s pitiful, this is our catch-22
You 30-something, man, at least act 22
We gotta start fighting for the children again
Destroy the house, gotta rebuild it again