i walked in a saloon 
at high noon, 
the moonshine sipper;
Spit a new rhyme 
till it's hasta la vista,
The king balloon twister, 
smash your transistor
"It's the High Plains Drifter"
that had to resist the
Sickness of the city life, 
I sat by the river;
A packet of Rizzler 
and a flask full of liquor;
Made the locals ask: "who's the masked figure?"
Fill a page 
with the pain 
it seems 
you can't picture.
The last heavy hitter, 
so many consider me
To be very bitter; 
switching up my delivery
Stitching up my injuries, 
and flipping imagery
Mixing toxins 
till I'm lost in the synergy
Drown in my misery, 
a man of mystery
I stand in the blistering heat as the epitome
Of the anti-hero, 
tipping my Stetson;
Space cowboy 
I drink whiskey with George Jetson

Two thousand and one, 
the space western
Quick on the draw, 
bring a war to your section
Blood Sport veteran, 
contraband cargo
The known desperado 
rolled into Lago

I ride with lost peasants, 
hot stepping across deserts
Letting the dust settle 
for sheep 
who watch shepherds;
Yeah I rock sessions, 
with unorthodox methods
The messenger, 
ready for death 
when God beckons
On frontlines worldwide kids have got weapons,
And grey skies hide sunshine from the heavens,
I'm threatened, 
by the seven sins of my species;
I don't need TV, 
I read tea leaves
Smoke the peace pipe, 
in the chief's tepee;
I speak freely, 
the 3D graffiti 
writer;
Is kinda like the new easy rider
More bad apples in the crew than cheap cider;
I breath fire, 
the propane flamethrower,
Man the fort
for this hostile takeover;
I play poker-faced, 
hold an ace
Tucked up my sleeve, 
leave your mouth 
with a sour taste;
That's just how I play the game nowadays
Apologies to the crowd: I'm a hour late…..

Battling me? 
That'd be 
an embarrassing mistake,
Like promoters 
who don't get the "H" in the right place;
My mic stays in close range, 
I travel the low plains
But drift on a high 
like cocaine;
Exchange words 
with the man with no name,
Inspectors, 
throwing up letters on the ghost train;
I rotate, 
like old brakes 
on chrome plates,
Hunched up, 
punching keys 
till my bones ache
I blow fakes outta the water, 
chucking harpoons,
You can't move, 
running on the spot like a cartoon;
Leaving a trail of destruction when I pass through
The drunk fool, 
fighting off demons with a barstool;
Screaming "Ja Rule", 
my instincts are carnal,
The dirty rascal, 
or the king of the castle?
I'm partial to both titles,
 the soldier's quote in the Bible,
Holding my rifles to false idols
I love the crackle on the old vinyl, 
I rock break loops,
And make moves from my HQ
I stay true to the ancient ways
The herbalist 
curb-surfer 
riding paper waves

Followers of Sam Pisansarakit