Black gold Wu tang & Jimi Hendrix

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SONG CREDITS:
Written & Performed by Aesop Rock
Produced by Blockhead

LYRICS:
Love note to the whole fuck show, postmarked from a lighthouse in the blunt smoke, Dear motherfuckers, I’m teetering if you must know, wolf at the door like a bug to the fructose, Niece on the phone saying “Ian you should visit more”, We could build forts while the pigs court civil war, Miss you, miss you more, see you on the far side, scuffed shoes, couple new scars in the archive, I’m not here to pull scarves out, Here to pick tumblers under water with his arms bound, from in chains to the heart of “where art thou”,  I’m out there down to throw a grapnel at a guard tower, Down to spray piss on a cop car, It’s rage in the form of renaissance art, Can’t treat it like a job at the stockyard and feign shock when they turn the block to a pock mark, Stock parts knocking on Mach 1 to Camp Lo, amped up, eyes glowing unknown pantones, drive ’til it feels like a Van Gogh, lest I cheetah me some antelope, partly cloudy, palpable panic in the troposphere, wake a giant, poke a bear, we don’t do smoke and mirrors, we do do a med-kit and spare clothes, leave a motherfucker nowhere close, new super power that I picked up In the frenzy, I could draw a roof on fire from memory, each and every sketch another bloodletting, in the of wake escalation, and excessive rubbernecking, the champ can’t look away, drink it in, strobe-light, smoke, no life, no lifeguard, sink or swim, ring around the king of pain, bring acetaminophen, You either see the vision or dinner with demolition men, Boom, flame to the fuse to the barrel, I step into the room, split an arrow with an arrow, the first trick shot is just to show em that I dabble… I will not be aiming for the apple, Lately I treat every interaction as a living wake, thanking people close to me before the photo pixelate, new day, folk down play the game different, changed, and going from being chased to playing chicken, Get your whole road map pac-man’d, black mask, snack on whatever’s in the dash cam, It’s not an ad, hashtag, or a tap dance, patsy, the revolution will not have jazz hands, I know you’re alien to matters of the heart and mind, that shit that make you park the car and scream into the dark of night, Some days I wanna build a rocket to the Karman line, 10, 9, 8, keep your head and arms inside,  yea

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Garbology

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music re-edited by DJ Green Lantern

(dirty, non-mixtape, no DJ version... good luck finding it elsewhere!)

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