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o sicario e o padre

from by Lando Chill



Verse 1

A little verbiage got me wordage in the weekly,
Now everybody treat me like I made the box of Wheaties,
My ego defeats me so my ID be walking freely,
Til I put it to bed with marijuana and a Seely,
Seal these doubts within the back of my temporal box,
And pray to Allah and Jah we never break the locks,
The super ego was the builder to the psychic block,
Until the undercover ops shot our stock and started plantin glocks,
Now everybody wants to ride the trend to Basquiat,
But they aint bout that life,
They aint never hit that rock bottom,
Like Fred when them ops shot him
What the Torah did to Sodom,
What the Joker did to Gotham,
What the banks do for Rodham
My people try not to trip, for the karma got em
See we all die certain death, leaving with some clustered closets,
Carry bills with former ills like they some running faucets

Verse 2

Told them people fret not, little soldier, see the bet hot,
They say it take a year before I earn that guest spot,
Set up on post letterman,
Colbert saw our set hot,
You see I got a band and we growing like a cash crop,
Ask Popovich,
couldn’t predict the type of shit we on,
But neither did y’all so don’t regret not playing my songs,
Figured bandwagons need gas too,
Like a brow bear needs bamboo,
Or like im Miss Chloe and im coming back from round two,
a prophet or not,
prophetically stoke the fire of inspirational desire,
no promise of golden thoughts,
I figured the limit is, further than what we say it is,
Figured that limitless is closer than what we think it is,
A modest life leads to the smoothest route,
I guess as smooth as dad’s heart that shit petered out,
Metered like a boxing bout,
It’s when life takes that dive in the 10th is what you see what life’s really about.

Verse 3

Light flickers upon an ashen table,
Spare stem with no ends litter these token fables,
The voice of my own fear drowns out expensive cable,
The kid prayed to the God like a was Sister Mabel,
In three hours I was,
Absent of rent,
3000 bucks of money spent,
demos gone too,
through the back them niggas came and went,
and no less, they knew my work sched
and had both taken that one pledge,
to rob a nigga blind for heron and heavy pain meds,
my soul clad but I was still dodging them toe tags,
with slow drags of greenery scenery
filled with nomads,
who bite upon your steez
with the ease of licking ya gonads,
and fade into the night
when they figure out they shit is so bad…
they shit is so bad…


from The Boy Who Spoke To The Wind, released June 23, 2017


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Lando Chill Los Angeles, California

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