You Ain't It - Themselves, Lazer Sword

I’m saying, you ain’t it

You ain’t it

I’m saying

I’m saying, you ain’t it

You ain’t it, I’m saying

If you paint it on long

And rhyme to not wrong

The fawn of all song

A pawned goner to strong…

I would not call you poet

If you tryharditapart

In a guarded bombardment

Of self martyr and garbage…

I will not call you poet

I’d call you farmer

You will not be called by me poet…

These stricken suckas is soft often

And offed goners got in the cough of no cause

Caught in a cauphin the size of a men’s medium

Their pen’s bleeding them

Of anything half-life, all might or believe and then

They’re thrown to the stone sewn dead seed of a leader in them

And the rest is all froze poser and everything opposite sober

Choked joke broker of the lowest common eroder

Of all that’s good in the oven of men

And the evil’s they choose through…

So I’m a catch you in the wind w/or w/out crew

And do rap words to you

Farmer…

I push it previous and meanted at the pink pit In your pensive

And throw it brick to the hid glass of frontmen with

No hand cuffs near this mouth or a doubt in the gum of the gold that I spun

from the wick of a winded and abandoned me…

Abandoned like education in major markets

My sort of artist

Doesn’t think like a banker

Write like a carcass

Dim like the farthest

Light sources.

You poor portraits

Of breathed corpses

With out torches…

You only omen like horsehead

And then in your likeness we’re force fed

Gallons of brag, brief, and retreat over beats

Re-introducing

Advertising and the un-amazing flame with no heat

King brief of think least

His word worth discrete

Scope of effect, petit

And you’re weak weak weak…

You call it pain

I call it painted on

That’s too much pink (?)

I’m saying it’s too much

(You don’t feel it)

I’m saying, you ain’t it

I call it painted on

Are you capable of brave or able only in the stable claw of something

corporation sized

All babel eyed

And vacuum lived…

The cattle’s pride

Bitch in the belly of buy

Terrible merch puppet of major label tom foolery…

Or the easy indie emo born calm cool and free

Who ruin preach in perpetuity

Recycling your michael, Dylan, lennon and oshea’s…

Role-play is a thing of the simple

Jesters beggars and minstrels

You juice it a thimble for fans

Yet gulp gold down by the goblet

On some copshit

Decidedly toxic

Bill whipped giving godless, a bad name…

Another coat of grey on the shame colossus

We got this, above us, beside us, and of us…

A rotting, I hate this fake it and make it, till caked in maggot racket,

you play with its magnet, say it your famished and managed, a half day,

in a bad way and the anthem of pay

It’s tragic

You’re putting the mirror and smoke back in the magic

This is your act right in verse fire, you finna fry on a purse pyre,

unadmired by the ever in lasting…

What is it in song that you’re casting

Any efforts in last straw grasping, or a weakling unmasking

An expensively lit, exhibition in quit, about as two bit

As it isn’t backed by the rich…

So was it you or the script

One never should a, would a trusted their hearts with…

Cut (?)

You’re weak, cous' (?)

Muthafucka you ain’t it

(Weak MCs make me kill kill kill kill)

(Now that’s what it’s all about)

(Yeah)