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Flobots
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The Form
I'm listening to rap CDs from the middle of the storm,
Where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn,
And the fire in which you burn keeps me warm,
The final breath of death is the art, the form is the rap
CDs from the middle of the storm,
Far from the place I was born,
But I seen it in a porn,
The Producer said he had once burned
And he learned how to fill out the form
In the middle of the storm,
With the winds blowin hard and fast,
And the hurricane spin throwin shards of glass,
Alleycats dump litters and guard trash,
Feminine skin scraped and shredded,
Women and men raped and beheaded
And taped as they utter their last breath,
Blood-plastered lips mutter
'...fuck that other bastard...'
Kiss their mother and praise god with the pastor,
Race to the death,
Who's faster?
Who's faster?
The news casters cruised past so they could video tape
The raped-and-bruised-bastard,
Spliced him into segments used after adver-
Tisements and regular fake-confused-laughter
I heard of this disaster,
But I don't know about it,
But every rapper's got a flow about it
I'm listening to rap CDs from the middle of the storm,
Where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn,
And the fire in which you burn keeps me warm,
The final breath of death is the art, the form is the rap
CDs from the middle of the storm,
Far from the place I was born,
But I seen it in a porn,
The Producer said he had once burned
And he learned how to fill out the form
The producer passed,
Heard the blood bleeding,
Turned, the last words so hot he had a CD burned
With a song about the mom,
And a song about the pastor,
And fifteen songs sayin 'FUCK THAT OTHER BASTARD!'
Remixed and mastered, humanity clipped,
Tracks blunted so everybody wanted a hit,
Takin shit from the hood, makin it taste good,
When it played at the club the whole place stood
On their tip-toes,
Wild like flip mode,
Calypso snippet so tight they rip clothes at the
Hip hop hard so the CD skips,
On an isolated quote from the dead man's bleeding lips,
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'...BITCHNIGGAFAG-BITCHNIGGAFAG...'
Onomatopoeia of bloody fists in a bag of dollars,
Rich kids hadn't cared now holler 'PRODUCER'
Produced a gold six figure tag on his collar
I'm listening to rap CDs from the middle of the storm,
Where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn,
And the fire in which you burn keeps me warm,
The final breath of death is the art, the form is the rap
CDs from the middle of the storm,
Far from the place I was born,
But I seen it in a porn,
The Producer said he had once burned
And he learned how to fill out the form
He made ten million dollars out of one soul,
Won't stop,
Can't stop,
Spinnin outta control,
Learnin how to win a gold and how to flow slow,
And in every single video rollin in dough,
Getting baked with the honeys, try to use em up,
Divin into money like Scrooge Mc Duck,
Frantically movin up,
Suckin vodka from bootstraps,
Standin on the back of a bull in a space suit,
Trapped killer whales out in the pool,
Sippin monkey brains out of the skull
With cinnamon sticks,
Teletubby suit with the head back,
Grinnin and shit,
Yellow belly monitor
Tracks blazin sinnin in six
Figures, relaxin days in linen laced limos
Bigger, addin switches swimmin in liquor,
Puff ciggerette drags and disses, callin everybody
'Blacks,' and 'Gays,' and 'Women'
This is rags to riches, bread crumbs to cream
From wanted ads to ads for burrito supreme
Stocks, bonds, and charity teams
Millionaire cleans doubt out by sharin the green, but
He's openly declarin his scheme - tough, arrogant, mean,
Time to time tries to teach what Farrakhan means,
I was starin at the barren scene there on the screen
And he yelled out 'I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM'
I'm listening to rap CDs from the middle of the storm,
Where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn,
And the fire in which you burn keeps me warm,
The final breath of death is the art, the form is the rap
CDs from the middle of the storm,
Far from the place I was born,
But I seen it in a porn,
The Producer said he had once burned
And he learned how to fill out the form
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