Troublearth (Sorry Fuckers It’s Dirty)

[Hook 1: Kimani Rogers (of Roosevelt Franklin)]
We are the children of concrete and steel and
This is the time when the truth is concealed and
This is the time when the lie is revealed because
Everything is possible, but nothing is real
But nothing is real. But nothing is real
But nothing is real. But nothing is real

[Verse 1: Kimani Rogers (of Roosevelt Franklin)]
I never
Felt as alone as I do at this moment
On a park bench with eight million people around
This woman powerwalks by in all-black. Her dark clashes
With the cluttered leaves all on the ground. I’m made aware
Of the tracks in my arm, the fear in my heart
The tears in my eyes. I feel I’m falling apart
Had these nightmares we’re wrestling, smashed through the window panes
I woke up in cold sweats with visions of Kurt Cobain
Friends had always called me crazy, but I’ve claimed
Eccentric. Now I stop and then I stroke much and, maybe, because
Last night, the Devil came and paid me a visit
Just to prove that he still existed. Said he had
A tough time sorting through the righteous and wicked
For now, I’ll keep a gun in my bag if shit thickens
I’m awake all hours of the night, eyes wide-shut
My brain’s overactive, wind up naked in my bathtub
The cool porcelain’s dry-heaving, trembling
From visions of the demon that I met last evening
Leaving 1, 2, 3 stamped in a phantom trail
Of blood that’s gone stale and relationships failed
I got a frail skeleton of beliefs but a healthy libido
And I’ve never been too fond of people, so
Welcome to the new face of evil, where the Devil
Smiles in his speeches and genocide’s legal
Where the national pastime is killing innocent people
Where we’re led to believe that everyone who vote is eagle
Where we no longer asking, “Why?” We ask, “How?”
‘Cause the past is so irrelevant. Future is now. We’re here
At war for control of your mind, soul, and spirit
Where the truth is like the Sun: you get burned if you near it
Got the Big 5 alive. We’ll control what you hearing
And the new, steaming 9 will control what you fearing
And these politicians speaking out loud, using a forced tongue
Lying like these niggas telling girls how much they’re horse-hung
You want to try and be a master on the Fourth Rung
But all the second-hand smoke here, it corrodes lungs
It’s hard to stack your bread tight ‘cause the dough runs
That’s why the people on my block carry toast guns
The way that things is getting now, I’m ‘bout to tote one
‘Cause Bush be on some [?] shit. Murder, he wrote one
Wrote one. Wrote one. Wrote one

[Hook 2: Kimani Rogers (of Roosevelt Franklin)] (x4)
So the world is in trouble, fuckers. It’s time to face it
Instead of sitting there, masturbating in your basement
It’s time to take a shower, change clothes, and hit the pavement
And I’ma give you ten easy ways for you to save it