Guess who's back, guess who's back?

We back to relapse
on a block called “The Trap,”
its windows blackened with rap
to them ten strong in the hack
dragging this song.

We back to redact them old tags on the wall,
names at half-mast, cast in a lawless black scrawl,
mere bylines at twilight beginning of getting a die right on,
in three-to-four letter loyalties that dry before dawn.

By habit or craft,
my whole discograph
is first murmur and last stab,
relentless as rent checks

my rep
is a slur, curse, word, and a death threat,
as for old fears, son, there ain’t no answer record yet.
Spit oil slick talk, you might slip on the set list,
I did slit a brittle novelist with one-ice line pick, kicked…

We back with both halves
to burn, bone, and last
and know that
no exile a return is entire just as
this ain't all aftermath of a crash,
ask Dax…

guess who’s back?

We have returned to the ave. of first things
and we're back to burn the debris of beginnings.
To my many lives' timeshare dimes and term-limit crews,
I leave for each of you the bookkeeping that thieves do
at three in the morning beneath a bloodless moon.

But I knotted no rope of licensing that I might leave you in Junes,
no icy Midas finery lining my B of A tomb.
only swap meet winnings unmoved in a rented room
in addition to the foul and mutual feeling used.

So to my enemies true
to my mom’s new names and her hundred gurus,
To them tired-guitar, light-on-heart, mind-on-marquee, try-hards…
got nothing but grudge for them, twice-robbed ,
a shadow plugged by art burning vice squads,
cross a career of called bluffs,
sensitive mics and puzzles in dust
plus the peculiar alone of us
all not on posse cuts

I will put it one way
on you.

No rotted rope oath, rehab robe, long road ode.
Oakland winter know the razor wind in my throat,
cut through your bird bone,
won’t quit at its hollow;
we not vox pop poll or Pitchfork prop swoll,
no pay-stub mob mules, nor orthodox old school
South Bronx rap rules, simply diss song true.


Are you easy on being, do you heed the
beat of blood or believe in it heeding you
or even short leashing you
read tea leaves and stars
then start dry-heaving,
are you asleep or simply discreet cleaning
in the sewer of the desire for a redeemer
meaning (classic, classic, classic, classic)
do you throw your back out dreaming?

To dive bars, my bent blinds,
the three AMs of thirty year olds
and all else near gold, gone, dull, dim,
or sentient numb.
Whether shining or shunned,
none and all can come and get un-done
by the two in the selves one…

And they sung, sung of the matter
in a manner that held
one’s lone gun pen to one’s hunt-net drum,
and they sung
with the kind of hunger wings once sprung from,
and they sung
from the boiler room of buildings where your heroes get hung…

Lyrics submitted by onedozen

Back II Burn song meanings
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