the bastard son i spit non fiction   in exile for a while now with raw friction   never be a pawn the boomerang be upon you   i'm like Fela with my heart in Venezuela   its a world favela so fuck the novela   i'm out of the cellar with a blade and some cheddar   for the whole new world order you to bow down   to the now sound of slavery the era be   terrible terror filled terrified   why would we ever let a few white christian fiction's   shape our tomorrow followers them   cause tomorrow got a gun to its head      time is coming   rising like the dawn of a red sun   if you fear dying then you're already dead      i'm in with the spirit of Ali Touré   as I target more heads than a priest on ash wednesday   paid and hungry you pigs on gold ropes   have the mic or the heater but you can't hold both   you could snatch one and catch the blast of the other   i'm Chicano soprano high off my pitch ammo   i'm a put a crack in your diamond pimp cup   so vest up i'm your cross turned right side up   i'm the press leak that downed you aide   i'm the orange jump suit thats taylor made   i'm the crescent, the sickle, so sharp the blade   i'm the flick of the shank that opened your veins   i'm the dusk, i'm the frightening calm   i'm a hole in the pipeline i'm a road side bomb      time is coming   rising like the dawn of a red sun   if you fear dying then you're already dead