NGH WHT: chaps. 9-12)
Feel the music. Son, we got you programmed like a beat. When I press snare, Yo, guard your grill. 'Press kick, you move your feet. You can't compete. I got my hydrants parked on every street. I'm federal NGH. Son of Sun. Come close and feel the heat. I am the streets. The white lines only separate me from me. You hydroplane in false gods name and still crash into me: Sign and Tree; Mountainside; Guard Rail; The Sea. They thought they stole you from my arms then carried you to me. Here's the key: DNA encoded in a beat. White rocks in a vial, NGH, ain't got nuthin' on me. BCH I'm free. Ask these editors at MTV. Far as they, know they're publishing some new school poetry. Let it be. 'Cause even that will serve to turn the key. Doorways into other worlds. The Truth shall set you free. YOU are me, I am you, but also I'm (s)he. She-pherd of a b****** flock that grazes in the streets. Feel the beat. Nod your head. Lean back, yo. Touch your feet. Let me see you pop that thang right there girl in your seat. Feel the heat. Count this page amongst your whitest sheets. Comfort in my every word. Slide under. Countless sheep.
Hail Mary, Mother of God. Got the whole host of angels shuffling in my ipod. NGHs learned to raise their voices when I lowered my rod. Staff of Moses. Pharaoh knows it. Son, my word is my bond. Tune my heart with mind. Speak my nature: Divine. Call this s*** into existance back in '79. With the future in my pocket tightly gripped like a 9. Keep my finger on the trigger waiting for the right time. Ancient NGHs align! Path of Cosmic Design. Blood of kings 'cause Saturn's rings don't need no diamonds to shine. Yes, the reason for the season, ornamented divine. Coded Language of the mystics with my fist in the sky.
Keep your head up. We represent The Real, my NGH. Dead up. Book of the Dead. History bled. This NGH fed up. Led us to despair, some into prayer, and they won't let up until they got us worshipping them false gods instead of The Realness. God of the streets. My NGHs feel this. We nod our heads and worship through beats. Go ahead and kneel. It's the LOVE that makes the cipher complete. And it'd displayed through the way the bass line marries the beat.
Feel the music. Son, we got you programmed like a beat. When I press snare, Yo, guard your grill. 'Press kick, you move your feet. You can't compete. I got my hydrants parked on every street. I'm federal NGH. Son of Sun. Come close and feel the heat. I am the streets. The white lines only separate me from me. You hydroplane in false gods name and still crash into me: Sign and Tree; Mountainside; Guard Rail; The Sea. They thought they stole you from my arms then carried you to me. Here's the key: DNA encoded in a beat. White rocks in a vial, NGH, ain't got nuthin' on me. BCH I'm free. Ask these editors at MTV. Far as they, know they're publishing some new school poetry. Let it be. 'Cause even that will serve to turn the key. Doorways into other worlds. The Truth shall set you free. YOU are me, I am you, but also I'm (s)he. She-pherd of a b****** flock that grazes in the streets. Feel the beat. Nod your head. Lean back, yo. Touch your feet. Let me see you pop that thang right there girl in your seat. Feel the heat. Count this page amongst your whitest sheets. Comfort in my every word. Slide under. Countless sheep.
Hail Mary, Mother of God. Got the whole host of angels shuffling in my ipod. NGHs learned to raise their voices when I lowered my rod. Staff of Moses. Pharaoh knows it. Son, my word is my bond. Tune my heart with mind. Speak my nature: Divine. Call this s*** into existance back in '79. With the future in my pocket tightly gripped like a 9. Keep my finger on the trigger waiting for the right time. Ancient NGHs align! Path of Cosmic Design. Blood of kings 'cause Saturn's rings don't need no diamonds to shine. Yes, the reason for the season, ornamented divine. Coded Language of the mystics with my fist in the sky.
Keep your head up. We represent The Real, my NGH. Dead up. Book of the Dead. History bled. This NGH fed up. Led us to despair, some into prayer, and they won't let up until they got us worshipping them false gods instead of The Realness. God of the streets. My NGHs feel this. We nod our heads and worship through beats. Go ahead and kneel. It's the LOVE that makes the cipher complete. And it'd displayed through the way the bass line marries the beat.