| Usually I wait a couple bars
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| But ain’t no time for that between doomsday and a day job, ay
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| Prolly I should wait a couple summers
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| But I’mma drop gems on you before the sky above us do
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| Blue ink on yellow paper, try’nna make it green
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| Red numbers in my life, rent due by the fifteenth
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| People holding pink slips, investing hopes in color schemes
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| But Young Eye, few things be how they seem out here
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| There’s mad layers like a five cheese pizza
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| Try’nna see past, it remind me of Nina
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| She said, «a child’s eyes’s freedom
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| It’s not clouded with the fear of seeing»
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| I’m paraphrasing, but what I mean is
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| Even if the face behind the mahogany desk now orange
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| We been governed by the green, and black gold below us
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| The scope of the owner’s in the canvas
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| And the brushes and the paint
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| But ay… you can own your eyeballs
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| Baby, I know it burn bright
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| Don’t let your eyes adjust
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| Keep 'em wide open though
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| It might just, just might
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| Dark fronting like a shining light
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| Don’t let your eyes adjust
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| I’m writing this to you while you’re still in the womb
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| Or you might be we’re not sure, but the period’s overdue
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| In nine months if you’re really there, try’nna peak through
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| Know that few things be what they appear to, out here
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| The fascist agenda in fashion again though
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| My fam' in Paris feel the right wing wind blow
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| Charlie out in the US, she might wanna move again though
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| My boy in London said, 'cue the crescendo', ay
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| Neo Nazis marching in Stockholm again though
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| Half of those fools caught in the Stockholm syndrome
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| Ain’t no making excuses for a Nazi or defending them
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| But I still ain’t seen a newborn with an emblem on 'em
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| Somebody taught them to see
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| Through a lens skewed by a couple thousand years
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| Of Colonial power-tripping and scheming
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| There’s a reason we call them 'the powers that be'
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| They be there… ssh, they still be there
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| Still divide and conquer then pocket the profit then leave
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| They ain’t down with your Uncle Mohammad, your Uncle
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| That’s why they building walls out of false prophecies, they know it’s all gravy
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| Long as the sauce pouring out the screen
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| Oh baby, I know it burn bright
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| Don’t let your eyes adjust
|
| Keep 'em wide open though
|
| It might just, just might
|
| Dark fronting like a shining light
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| Don’t let your eyes adjust |