Every dialectic shapeshifts a makeshift shield of hatred
I spit fire
Quick fire
Twist fire
Roll a roach from a ripped flyer
Tip toeing over ego trip wire
Soft steppin on eggshells as hell beckons
A bed of black rose petals on my twenty second
With twenty seconds on the clock I kept many guessin
A game of death threats met with defiance
I bring stones for the riots
While the right side of the brain extends through computer science
Flicks fictionalise our lives
In alliance with the Queen in the core of the hive
Breeding parasites
The wise read and analyse the scrolls
Stolen souls dissolve in alcohol
Master drunken pole
A cold-hearted defence in this dungeon hole
I hold hope for the globe in a closed palm
Locked in a gold heart
Lost and emotionally charged
I chart progress
Through this pain staking process
Elimination of the grotesque (no less)
This overblown mess left grown men stressed and suicidal
Cyanide drips from the vinyl
My vital signs fade
I m trapped in a pessimist s mind-state
A frozen emotional ice age

Chorus
I spit fire, I spit fire
Quick Fire Quick Fire
Twist Fire, Twist Fire
I spit fie

My words form pictures
Jigsaws built from torn scriptures
A warped image
A collage of small figments
Inter-related
Creative with raw English
I walk with born sinners who talk business
Subs and permanent fixtures
Medicine man sippin elixirs
Wettin my lips and lickin the rizlas
Listening to enemy transmissions
Sittin here pickin the splinters out of my flesh
The fresh script inker
Indica stick sticky fingers
Balanced on the brink of drinking binges
While friends sink syringes into their skin
And it could all end in an instance
With no one to discipline the infants
Walking the ledge
I stay nimble as ninjas
My pen nib inches
Closer and closer
Ghosts in my dome stay closed in a coma
Crows overhead
Twisted as the trail we tred
Most failed or fled
Ended up jailed or dead
But never me
Eyes in the back of my head for any enemy
Ready for them backstabbers
Suited and booted on this black Sabbath
Truly polluted by the pain
I paint the blues on a blank canvas
We re all judged by the same standards
Saints gangsters and base heads in St Pancras
It s plain madness
My brain strains to make sense of
We blaze ten spots
This games deadlocked

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