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 winters   lending kids to the skull in their wish   if there was one      What is this place?   Where greed came into 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'd 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 cunning of kids   from the future of things   So they are starved for the gristle of meaning   that which can be gnashed   between teeth and never ate   only passed      So I call them   I call them lambs to the lion they steal from   and sic my pen on their thinnest of ghosts   and know   they don't wake and take bullets with water like vitamins   even savage with mornings   dagger the side of their face with the rising sun   No, they sleep hard in a 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 once 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 willl 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   till 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 a death   your eyes filled with a crowd of maggots and mud   jewelry loose on your bones   like you were on your meaning