Shoutout to the taggers nigga free sweettooth

Shoutout Beef1

[Verse 1]
I was tired, stars glistening, deep talks, Panam at the campfire
What’s missing? Ay, Wisdom teeth pulled out with pliers, Ay
Frantz Fanon, White Masks, Michael Myers
How did we get here from baby food isles and diapers
Mama's hugs and Santa Claus liars, back when I wasn’t even called Cyrus
Everything I got from my parents was set ablaze by insular matchsticks
I honed retaliatory tactics in malice, while bumping No Malice
I’m lying; I just stayed quiet while asking what bourgeois rule is
Every summer, we were pretending to carpool in the Iranian desert
Acorns still hide from blind squirrels
A child of the Orient, the Occident said this is how the world works
And you know the world whirls as boys and girls straighten all of their curls
Or flatten they nose.
Cause you know, history is a rapper that paraphrases itself!!!

[Hook]
Cause I can rap like I was born in a Zoroastrian monastery
Does that make me insecure? I would say probably
I can rap like I was born in a Zoroastrian monastery
Does that make me insecure? I would say probably

[Verse 2]
Saw a silk-stocking British man in the Isfahani town square
How microcosmic
Didn’t realize it back then, but as the sapling grows,
It becomes increasingly obvious
And it grows dubious; it senses the tricknology sourced by the Yakubians.
Or the coin flips on the other side and you become an 85%er, but not me!
They spewed the racial epithets monotonously
As the epistemological search for an understanding altered my identity, the
clarity is overwhelming
And if you open the doors behind you, the path you're treading on suddenly
becomes compelling,
Socratic questioning, morals rendering, portals opening
The cake becomes a lie.

[Hook]
Cause I can rap like I was born in a Zoroastrian monastery
Does that make me insecure? I would say probably
I can rap like I was born in a Zoroastrian monastery
Does that make me insecure? I would say probably

[Outro]
And the cake… becomes a lie
and the taskmaster's words lose meaning!
Uh, Mirrors

---

Written by Cyrus Mirrors
Performed by Cyrus Mirrors
Produced by Cyrus Mirrors
Engineered by Cyrus Mirrors
Artwork by Cyrus Mirrors
Recorded at the ominous Globe Al-South headquarters (my room)

Released independently by Globe Al-South Records

Psychoanalysis

[Verse #1]
The neophyte crawling out the cavern of apathy
Presents a clear misunderstanding of beat poetry
padawans swing their sabers as they are shaking
How you use the force is what may display complacency
Year thirteen ninety-seven
A nightingale proudly debuted a very loud chirp of agency
frivolous Yo Mama jokes served as metaphorical artillery
Followed by us all laughing instantly
The candle whose words lighten up a ruin
If I choose silence, I weave nests of endurance
Comfort zones are hazardous when you’re used to it
Nomadic vagabondage, how my ancestors do it
Before we had desires to become the greatest writers
Or to be known as the illest of all the rhymers
We was just kids in the cyphers doing our best
Who could have known who Cyrus would become next, uh

[Verse #2]
My target audience is cats
Who realized that the term “post-rap” is C.I.A. psyop bullshit
Y'all rap like Mensheviks, bench warming nihilists.
I told my sonic psychiatrist what I thought that rap is
And how I’m scared they extract the revolutionary aspects
From Dumas to Dumile, the radical tradition is spiritually instilled
With the power to forge calculators displaying the number one
Ay, like the Ghostface song, another dadaist lumineer
So don't you tremble in fear
When you can change the world
But only when you understand how this sword works
Now show me how this sword works
I used to rap as a hobby without foreseeing,
Rhyming and flowing’s importance and crucial meaning
So now I ask the padawans listening
Tell me, what is the true definition of emceeing?

---

Written by Cyrus Mirrors
Performed by Cyrus Mirrors
Produced by Cyrus Mirrors
Engineered by Cyrus Mirrors
Artwork by Cyrus Mirrors
Recorded at the ominous Globe Al-South headquarters (my room)

Released independently by Globe Al-South Records

Definition of Emceeing

Time is moving at a speed I can't control
Caving in on me
Lengthy journey, blisters decorate my toes
I closed my eyes, then I came to twenty years old
Uncertain destiny

art by @ixosyd + me 

sounds completely done by me

A poet from half the world, who's a young disciple of the ghostface wordsaladists, the awakeners of mummified martyrs, and those who spiritually peel pomelos in the name of anti-imperialism. Misery to the mainstream, glory to the Globe Al-South, and peace to you, beloved!

Contact.CyrusMirrors@gmail.com

Psychoanalysis

Cyrus Mirrors

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