The Words - Emanon, Aloe Blacc, Exile

Call me the rapscallion

A rogue rhyme sayer single-handed battalion

Thoroughbred pedigree like black stallion

The pale horse coudn’t come close to pose a challenge

And rappers pale in comparision to my styling

I’m dropping knowledge while they narrow minds popping violence

I listen for truth, all I hear is a calm silence

I’m looking for proof, all I see is my mom’s smiling

Beaming proud cause I stopped buggin' and wilding

Every man is an island —

— I stand alone like the cheese

Everyman is connected separated by six degrees

Walk the path of enlightenment down the road on we ease

By inches the gaps squeeze approching our destinies

Breathe out in a cycle that we share with the trees

And sway aimless like branch catch the rhythm of breeze

Always going but never knowing where fate may lead

Listen to my elders remember to take they head

Even when you smile meanwhile somebody else bleeds

And rose gardens get infected by weeds.

Never admire desires over necessities

I take time, to balance out all of my wants and needs

Keeping time, I tap my left hand on my knee

And with my right I write a style that’s free.

Running away from yesterday

Time is passing and I can not stay

Bless the children is what I say

I write the words and give them away

I was borned educated, I escaled to a

Style that’s elevated.

Above the average

Suckas who never made it — still trying to show out

But never paraded, it’s kind of faded

The way they stay jaded — from really knowing what’s goin' on

It’s like they stuck up upon the same song

I aim strong, above my goals because I know

That gravity is pulling me back down on the floor

So I prepare my presentation just before I deliver

Pull another verbal arrow up out of my quiver

Yo, I’m a precious piece of the history

People are still trying to figure out the mystery

Ancient like the streets of Sicily

I got the itch to be a high speed pitch fastball swing and a miss

Blacker than the abyss, and good for ya like a fat bowl of grits

I commandeer the mic and I spits

Shooting verbal knowledge at little kids

I use my voice box instead of boxing with fists

But square up on a square when I’m pissed — So where’s the list

The class is in session but weak niggas is dismissed

Go on back to the lab and practice

Counting my blessings on the lessons that I’ve been streesing

Louging with essence guessing I’ve chosen the right profession

Get up and motivate to the spot and I’m rolling late

But anyway that’s how we play out in the golden state

Big up my man he shakes my hand I pat him on the back

The salutation met with traditional wise crack

After the laughts we get to business for the afternoon

Reach in my bag and grab the CD packed full of tunes

Turn up the bass boost so we could feel the subs boom

Walls shaking feel like the earthquaking in the room

Make a selection choose the dopest of the dopest

For the rhymes session beats got to keep lyrics in focus

And vice versa, creating aural inertia

Moving forces with a purpose like fluid sounds to immerse ya