Text: Subtle. Other. Middleclass Stomp.
The fate of your life
may very well be determined only
by how good you look in white...
and lets just say
they will want you perfect,
like a leading white male should bee,
like a man who's had every single nerve removed
swapped with copper wire ,been given gazing globe teeth...
had both eyes capped off with factory glass.
Naturally you freak at the mere thought of being poured toward complete.
and so,
when the very fabric of your rap career dissolves,
right there around you...
ryder there, all around you...
everyone still there,
hair soaking up the settling smoke.
Like a large dollop of grey plopped hard
in the plain water of hack,
you sink...
and still they want your autograph,
on the back of that there ticket stub.
beside the refund policy or just above,
in designer legible graffiti or blood
like you were or are about to cry.
The reflection of the merch stuffed stale in your stole eye.
Some say, they'll go as high as 750 on a sturdy bag of sperm
or the ape's ugly skates from a previous song...
hell...you should start carrying guns...
(CRASH)
Enter Debts officer promise through a hole in the floor
and behind him rides his army of a hundred something swarming forks.
all there, unraveling his one kilometer long list of things most certain to be so.
You case the dancefloor for any people who'd post...
and upon clearing your rapping self's coast...
dive with both eyes for blood at the list.
scanning it's infinity plus one rungs
for your surname or face
till sure enough...you find it in place
between Dollar and Drummond.
beside it,
some sort of check-mark or poorly drawn rib
is sat, scrawled all red inked and ominous.
Scared to the seeds in your teeth
you ask debts officer p. for the key,
and hunt hard for this tic-mark or rib
to find out what gives...
and then fffffttt...
there it is:
"middle class"
Which you know can only mean one thing...
your welcomed to the no gamble grind now
of what seems middle class or above...