[Verse 1]
I hope you enjoy your shopping mall adventures
Could’ve gotten you an armband from a bazaar vendor
I gave you gift cards; you gave me Christmas socks
What a bizarre winter; Wallace Fard ventures
I dipped in the afternoon, Internal pondering
How should this be construed, ay, Mewtwo in the tube; I had to sleep on it
Meekly grumbling, good friends giving each other dull gifts
I guess we are equally bogus, but I find myself wearing reindeer socks in August
Now I wonder, how come one of these unimaginative gifts holds sentimental
value and the other just doesn't?
And I could've given you gift cars in the dozens
Still wouldn’t change much. The curmudgeon fists stayed clutched

[Verse 2]
It’s been months later, Happy Birthday
Still not well versed in your hobbies
In disarray, I hand you yet another gift card — I’m sorry
I’ll think of something better for next time
Next time comes and the two reindeers on my feet smile
No gift cards in hand; instead, there are fifty dollars that I plan to hand you
Toucans have a hard time cleaning their beak
Gift buying sure ain't for the weak
I spent a whole week in vain trying to find something unique
Safe to say I didn’t find much; I apologize in solemn
I know possums that stopped eating berries in friends' backyards
And I know wasps that quit stinging to pick up pollen
You know what? Maybe I am the problem, uh

---

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

Gift Cards for Everyone

[Verse 1]
I’m sick of past/present dichotomy
I pity myself looking at how it is now
I envy myself looking at what it used to be
I am the late elephant from Islamabad
Who was sent here to do a forensic analysis on what we had
Belligerent hashtags and boastful hash puf ing
She’s blushing, like the Karl Marx mural in Shiraz
Listening to Shabazz Palaces
As we passed jarred secrets until we attached like napalm
Used to wish for a clean slate like a clean face after face balm
Missed every baseball, ignored every FaceTime call
I face the time that passed in awe
It’s bittersweet
I bitterly consider the upsides of a lack of continuity
My amygdala grows as I ponder in scrutiny
This song is a eulogy written by every person on this earth
I gave birth to ideas that hurt to think of
I don't make love songs; I don't rekindle broken bonds
We wrote said eulogy in particularly goofy font
There's no room for more gauze
Hip-hop is my religion, and Surrealism is my point of view
So how could I ever be direct or just take myself seriously
The emotional unavailability is far from satiating
The silence is highly revelating
A week in, re-evaluating the logistics
I drank a gallon of squid ink, but I'm still just like you
And that’s the problem, that’s the problem
I'm still just like you, I'm still just like you, uh
I drunk a gallon of squid ink, but I'm still just like you
And that’s the problem, that’s the problem
I'm still just like you, I'm still just like you, uh

[Verse 2]
I’m sick of past/present dichotomy
The transformation from a human to a commodity or a service
Before I was honest I was nervous
A message is enough for unwanted ghouls to resurface
Goosebumps on the epidermis, the thermostat exploded
The modem overheated, the old man decided it’s time to be seated
The seedling hid from the flowers; it felt anything but empowered
I always have a gun pointed at my ears, not my head but my ears
I revel in comfort and search for perfect key lime pies in fear, in fear
I shed a lot of non-existent tears
I’m the most emotional, emotionally unavailable guy
Here’s the entrance to the void where potential comes to die
And if you slip you can potentially die, no lie
I tried, if it ever mattered, repeat it five times in a memorable pattern
We can both be quiet and act like nothing ever happened
But stars collide unwillingly; we are done with the past
But the past isn't done with the present; here’s a present
Open it; it’s Occam's razor; we had left it in a secluded orphanage
Orpheus’ poems ring so loud the ears explode, even the cartilage

[Outro]
Yeah, you know
Orpheus’ poems ring so loud the ears explode even the cartilage
No one has an impenetrable tolerance, especially not me
Especially not me, definitely not me, no no no

---

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

My Last Surgery

Inner Circle

[Hook]
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden

[Verse 1]
I shake my head, and it falls of
My peace was called of , disrupted
The past and present; they’re conjoined problems
Twins who happen to be mothers and daughters
And the fathers, mute in pure fright
Both cataclysms happened during the night
The cognitive dissonance served on a platter of ice
And everyone's healthy until they’re rushed to the hospital
Breathing through tubes so clinical
What if your rock disappeared due to stones
What would happen to your goals and aspirations
Monological conversations; It’s one of many steps, It’s one of many steps
Ayy, you have to compartmentalize even if there’s a dif erence between
apfel strudels and apple pies, potato wedges and waf le fries uhh
(You have to compartmentalize)

[Hook]
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden
I'm a little Buddhist scout marching with my Zen mother
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden

---

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

I Shake My Head... It Falls Off

[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]
My parents show me AI-generated versions of my baby pics
Makeshift apologies; stars rain over Isfahan, metaphorical astrology
As one fifth of Iranians get rhinoplasties
Eurocentric parasitic ideals and ideologies
As white women endorse hair straightening procedures to alter your natural
biology
I stayed away from the Kool Aid
In the midst of ICE raids, in need of mutual aid
Travel bans and unraveling Klan mentality
Reverberating liberal verbal banalities, they aren't that dif erent
A mental surgery is one clingy mistress
That from a distance can seem like your wife
I question life; I question if I ever had faith
Congolese hands on the ground in a puddle of wild rubber
That’s the same color as the colonizer
Who’s to blame? The ones who sliced the cake indeed
The same perpetrators strike the Yemenis as they celebrate Eid
As the Gazans devour turtles in famished huddles, it’s a hurdle
As the Sudanese miss home, being human is apparently controversial
Button-up shirts and linen pants to match in
Bars from Leningrad recorded in the ominous Globe Al-South headquarters
I already told you, I stopped feeding wells, dimes, and quarters
And equipped the mortarboard in an attempt to become a student
It became conclusive: I am a human, not a surgical patient
Patience, my child, may you come to the same revelations
Trying to get my mind of things by
Attempting to find goats on an islet after eating Chilean hamburgers
Sold by minimum wage-earning college-attending workers
Drowning in the icy water of egotistical calculations
I bet they undergo surgeries too; most likely
It’s most timely that I formed this understanding
White boys rebranding but still spew the same message
Kids of color grow up with the same impressions
If I acted too brashly or appeared agitated they had the infrastructure to impose
orientalist dehumanization
I am the most quiet on the bus; that's integration right there
No one is quieter than me on the bus; I’m dead silent
While in my mind coming up with ways to explain how my culture isn’t violent
But they wouldn't listen, for instance, the image of a Middle Eastern man was
meticulously shaped to project the Occident’s intentions
So being myself was an idea I resented
Cut my hair so short that it couldn't curl anymore
The burden wore me down until I fell on the floor
Can’t you tell I’m an abommunoid by my night vision?
I start crying when stars glisten or when I hear airplanes humming
Calming myself by listening to inner-city griots balafon drumming
I was in Babylon succumbing, until I realized I’m Cyrus
Now my goal is to free and to inspire
(My goal is to free and to inspire, inspire)

[Hook]
Mirrors should not reflect other strangers' corpses.
This is my last surgery; I can draw self-portraits
Mirrors should not reflect other strangers' corpses.
This is my last surgery; I can draw self-portraits
Mirrors should not reflect other strangers' corpses.
This is my last surgery; I can draw self-portraits
Mirrors should not reflect other strangers' corpses.
This is my last surgery; I can finally draw self-portraits

---

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

Produced by Cyrus Mirrors
Engineered by Cyrus Mirrors
Artwork by Cyrus Mirrors

Released independently by Globe Al-South Records

One of Many Steps (Outro)

[Hook]
Everyone I know talks big until they eat a humble pie
Bumblebees can sting you, and they still live to apologize
Everyone I know talks big until they eat a humble pie
Bumblebees can sting you, and they still live to apologize

[Verse 1]
The most shifty vagabond
Who’s made choices worse than white women stepping foot in Erewhon
We can sit and drink tea with the tarragon
While contemplating where it all went wrong
Tadpoles in the wrong pond won’t ever find a lilypad
Doing the dishes willy-nilly broke a plate aw that's my bad
But the indignity is stuck in the spider's cobweb
So from the ancient tree, the panicked starlings flushed
Blushing out of embarrassment
The coping mechanism was arrogance
What’s going on, exclaimed the ornithologist
I think penguins and ostriches apologize for not even being able to fly
I think some of them say that they fly all the time in preposterous lies, uh

[Hook]
Everyone I know talks big until they eat a humble pie
Bumblebees can sting you, and they still live to apologize
Everyone I know talks big until they eat a humble pie
Bumblebees can sting you, and they still live to apologize

[Verse 2]
When I see a pigeon on the street, I apologize to it; “I’m sorry”
But Nihilists told me that my words mean nothing
So I kept my shame to myself
I stopped throwing dimes into wells; I started to rhyme spiritual spells
That indicate to my ancestors that I’m doing just fine
Even in the times of peril, where I needed a sign
Projectional pots still point out the shade of kettle
Roses still blame everything on all of their petals
Bees still meddle in the roses business
Now the tumor's malignant
There’s a dissonance amongst everyone involved
Oh, you brave knight, you can fight the dragon all alone

[Outro]
There’s a dissonance amongst everyone involved
Oh, you brave knight, you can fight the dragon all alone
There’s a dissonance amongst everyone involved
Oh, you brave knight, you can fight the dragon all alone

---

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

The Panicked Starlings Flushed from the Ancient Tree

ARTRAPDISSTRACK (0161 Radio Edit, We in this bitch raw) ((Now thats what i call music 2025))

MARCEL

Hayat gibi

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

One day, while I was wandering through my dreams, I suddenly got stuck in one of them. Everything you see from now on is a illusion, a dream.

New tracks tagged #ART RAP