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it goes papa burned his face off so i don't want to work a day job. purged a third of his nerves and all i learned was fuck a day job. slight gap between our likeness rained ash and turned my collar black. so i laugh when i get mistaken for a college grad. he was glass, brass and grease stains. three siblings to divide us and a wife. health slipped. schlitz pissing convenient pious. every newport was a lit prayer wrenched 'til cysts were timeless. golden days eighties baby raised by an arthritic midas' thousand tongues carping "hey, eight-year-old, you'll never be shit!" tucked away agape when he sees the women that i sleep with. 'cause sons fuck. antoine's got five my proof is past due. i'm carrion for vultures. my brother's a gang tattoo. anchored anger in his passed blues blooms and he sees it. clip and scale in the closet turned marine. willie beaming. now the shadow that i sleep in is nine years my elder. conception spawned his lockjaw on a bed of nails and failures. like, this is how failed braille works. this is how the frail burn at thirty-seven when your father does the day your second son's born.
all we ever wanted. our fathers, not an altar. bloodspun specter home of culling mississippi water.
After years of collaboration, mixtapes and some amazing EPs, my Metasota (MY COUSIN!) finally released his first official album. 100% proof why he's the most respected rapper in the Twin Cities. Lamon Manuel