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Milo
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Song About a Raygunn (An Ode to Driver)
You were on the top of a short list
I wrote the list around your placement on the list
You were on the list, most importantly
I don't even really have to rap
My nigga it's about if you can talk good
It's about if you can work a simple hustle
Turning rap insights into economic muscle
Ride the bourgeouis gristle like a surfboard
Nocando's my nigga 'til we dirt poor
So we do the math and we always carry clipboards I'm trying to strip myself, myself
And be a mirror for someone else I don't even really have to rap
My nigga it's about if you can talk good He raps like there's no sense to be made
He raps like the eldest sap of the Everglade
His raps move heat like thermostats adjusting centigrades
He raps with the grace of an old man shining his grandson's shoes
He raps like a master painter who's only choosing to use the blues
He reportedly raps in a dark apartment quarterly
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Wholeheartedly clutching the recorder to catch the nuzzled portions of organs
He'd been choking on
When he raps, everyone everywhere is always electrified
And no one would really mind if they were next to die
He only raps for a good reason, and getting rich isn't one of those
He scribbles raps furiously from a little bungalow
(I've been there)
I feel inclined to rhyme, I'm so inclined (Matters of process become matters of place) Parse good from the nonsense
Never let the form dictate what's the content
It's never art for art's sake
Despite whatever the corpse of a Marxist thinks
Thinking, dwelling, building, sinking, swelling, filling, shrinking
Selling movements, jinxed routine is useless
Glimpses of misgivings for the stupid
I guess I'm stupid
Following a rule is just too hard for me, it's hardly me
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