Burning Tire Artisan

by Chee Malabar

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Chee Malabar is one half of the hip hop outfit Himalayan Project and Oblique Brown. Firmly planted in the American experience, his music speaks on the immigrant experience, love, relationships, politics, and art.

Having released "Wince At The Sun" with Himalayan Project in 2003, Chee went on to release the eponymous LP "Oblique Brown" and an EP entitled “Dust” with long time collaborator Zeeb.

‘Burning Tire Artisan’––an amalgam of the personal and the political is his most recent full length effort. Produced by Staten Island native Ali Abidi, the album features Amitava Kumar, Willie Perdomo, Toki Wright, Haysoos, Ardamus, Anand Subramanian, Rainman, and Mo.

For more information visit:

For booking information for shows, panels and appearances for Himalayan Project, Chee Malabar and Oblique Brown:
Matt Alunkal @ Red Bench Records: (347) 725-0720

For licensing queries:
Modiba Publishing
Eileen O’Neill
Operations Manager


released October 11, 2011

All tracks produced by Ali Abidi except "Good Ones"* and "Cassette Era Rhymer"**

* Produced by Doc Ock
** Produced by Jest

Cash Cow (Bonus Track) Produced by Harry Hotter and Ali Abidi. Bass guitar on "Cash Cow" by Shaun Seneviratne.
Saxophone by Matthew Millar.

Features: Amitava Kumar, Willie Perdomo, Anand Subramanian, Toki Wright, Haysoos, Ardamus, Rainman, and Mo.

Dialogue sourced from Punching at the Sun by Tanuj Chopra

Mixed and Mastered by Great Scott
Album Image by Daisy Rockwell
Layout by Ali Abidi

Red Bench Records/IMI



Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.


Chee Malabar Brooklyn, New York

Chee Malabar is a Los Angeles based rapper & writer.

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Track Name: Live from Al-Jazeera (Feat. Amitava Kumar)
Live from Al-Jazeera
Featuring Amitava Kumar
Verse 1
On behalf of the unruliest hooligan mob,
Malcontent with a pen, Rap’s Julian Assange,
Underground, off air, no bombs by Funk Flex
My shit bump in suicide trucks of some sub sects
(Burning Tires….)

From Madras to Mombasa,
They harass us in our casa
Sayin’ ‘you Hamas, huh?’—Yeah, like I learned to rap in a fucking Madrassa,
Making bomb music like the sounds of scuds past ya

(Burning Tires)
All I got to show for it—
Precondition, I’m ill, someone tell me where COBRA is,
No Medicare, I medicate on six packs of beer
Hit the street with kerosene and light whatever’s near

(Burning Tires)
…and effigies ablaze, kill your idols,
whether Pop, Politics, or some god,
The name’s Chirag, faceless face in the mob,
Cancel checks(Czechs) you endorse like abortions in Prague


Verse 2
Still Live from Al-Jazeera: subtitled, grainy pixeled
Voice of Brown, homegrown yet strangely distant
They can’t reconcile my style, speech, and my ‘staani tan
American passport, face like a Taliban
…Screamin’ ‘Ali for Imam’
hit the stage with K.M. Hassan, give ya’ll the Saddam wave
Chem Ali’s gassin’ ‘em—stages turn to mass graves
House rage offa subprime rate.

Narration (Amitava Kumar)
I’m telling you this here so that you can see how ordinary men and women whose lives are entangled in the war on terror tell stories about themselves and their place in the world. Theirs are stories that bring together, whether as acts of fancy or as pictures of grim reality, different parts of our divided world.

Verse 3
We don’t shuck and jive for pay, mortgage heaven
And sell a preacher hell
Stroll through perdition in Adidas Shells
Old ass rappers trying to cast a Bieber spell
I speak 16’s that wake up sleeper cells—
We young, Brown, and stressed, long noses, hooded eyelids
Articulate, yeah—with names on No Fly Lists
But life is hard, why go at it easy?
For the fruits of my labor, peace to Mohammed Bouazizi.

Narration (Amitava Kumar)
Of course, as any writer knows, a story might begin at one place and then through an extraordinary, unexpected turn end up somewhere else entirely....The individual vanishes in a dark place of secrets. Or we watch him disappear on the brazen stage of propaganda. The particulars of an individual life are sometimes all that we have as a precious lifeline to firm reality.
Track Name: Soft Eyes (Feat. Willie Perdomo, Haysoos, and Anand Subramanian)
Verse 1
I’m that old immigrant hunger, that sidewalk grind
That midnight sun shift, that gravedigger grind
Those soft eyes that watch guys that white chalks find
Same eyes on the rooftop where white cops is spyin’
That bi-weekly high of that government dime
That confederate flag, that southerners pride
IED in that bazaar where your brother went to die
That Herpe sored dick that pimp sent your mother to try
That hole in that rubber that brought you alive
That scar tissue on your face that box cutter styled
That drink, that crack, that lost lover’s eye
I’m that fight fought with lights off, that rapist inside you
That gangster rap track that killers drive by to
That block, that spot, where you know they’ll find you
I’m this, I’m that, I’m ‘that’s not enough’
I’m that blind man with soft eyes who sees by touch.

Verse 2
I’m that house of vice doused in booze and reefer smells
Two stories up from that wide-awake sleeper cell
That expired visa that made you hide in the shadows
That drug mule shittin’ out work from her asshole
That Mayflower dream, that Middle Passage dream
That lightening cream, rape through that silent scream
That tent city slum, that rampant malaria
That airdrop that never came, that god dam hysteria
Monk on fire that Tiananmen tank
Brown skin turbaned man you see him and you shank
That home that love built that cheating dads killed
That house, that mailbox, that foreclosure notice
That will, that strength, that composed focus
That familiar face, that rush hour commute
That run in your place grind, that baby needs food
I’m that, I’m this, but I’m mostly you.

Verse 3
Feat. Haysoos
My appeal is I’m a dreaming realist, addicted to being sober
Visibly I conceal it, and I’m a peaceful soldier
Farther as I get closer, openly close minded
Peeps on the street with no teeth, they stay grinding
So many outlaws, say they play the rules
I did it overnight, but I paid my dues
Still rep the ghetto, but I’m filthy rich
Stay sucka free, but haters can suck my dick
I’m that guy you waterboard on a foreign shore
I’m a conservative redneck who hates the poor
I’m that dirty clergy that’s actually atheist
A second-class citizen, still a patriot
I’m the scene, the gunshot, the emergency light
I’m a feminist who wants a subservient wife
Preferably white, but yet I’m afrocentric
I’m you playa playa, we stay on the benches
Track Name: New Yorkstani (Feat. Mo)
Many tired to tame her, many tried to claim her
Left the same way they came—as perfect strangers
The city is yours, the city is yours, the city is yours.

Verse 1:
An old man’s recollection of the places where’s he lived
Image of a Ferris wheel, spins in his head, he asks
Was the era real?
Summertime on the terrace dreaming ‘bout Ebbets field
Below the fellas is grindin’, most of whom like him left their past on Ellis Island
30’s New York, thought Paris might find him
writing that book inside him and cherish his triumph-
Dad laughed and said, ‘You ain’t the son of a scion’.
So he went to work and wrought trellis out of iron
“I am” he said, “already in Zion.
In my twilight years my memory’s dying
But art is long, and life is short
I’ma leave the same way I came-piss poor
But living is an art, feel its true force
My spirit will live on in the people of New York.”

Many tired to tame her, many tried to claim her
Left the same way they came—as perfect strangers
The city is yours, the city is yours, the city is yours.

Verse 2:
A young man's education on love and its obstacles
on the same block where the brothel is,
where they shop that shit, fresh off pyrex pots with it
Mama said, "nothing's impossible...
.........son it's better than home,
'cause where we come from, the sky's lurked by predator drones."
Home is a tenement drenched in a curry smell
where all the neighbors laugh and call it a sleeper cell
cause Mom wears a hijab, Pop rocks a Kufi
young man? well, the boys call him dookie
sayin' he smells like shit, even dissed by other coolies
till he knocked a few out, now they fear his arm
appears calm but he worries his dear Mom
playin' 50 watchin' clips of Amir Khan
when ICE rushed in, tryna deport his mommy,
he yelled, "this is our home! We New Yorkstani!"

Verse 3
Feat. Mo
Deep thoughts of a young teen caught in the cross roads,
A lost soul. Spoke with her head down and talked low.
Specially after her parents divorced, so
And everything got worse, fourfold.
She aspired for them flashing lights like Morse Code.
Used to lock her bedroom door closed, and posed for
glamour shots on the mirror with her torso, imagining herself on a tour boat.
Her mother, was never supportive of her.
Used to tell others, that her best friend Tina was really her lover.
And the fact that she acted so much like her dad was the main reason she had to suffer.
In a household full of fights over who is wrong or right
and a mom who likes to taunt her life.
Our young teen says and responds so calmly,
I make it one day im NY STANI
Track Name: Cassette Era Rhymer (Feat. Rainman)
Verse 1
Mama raised me some till rap took an orphan in
Jumped into the talent pool where half these dude’s snorkelin’
That scram on site at the sight of my dorsal fin
Morsel bits who ain’t worth my force of will
That spirit that kill it, Mo—name my assignment
Who, when, where, set the stage spot my buy in
We soured on their math so we flexed the sweet science
Tweet, text, fax, tell the streets this beast primed
With razor blade phrases if you tryna’ catch a fade
Slice necks, use their head for a paperweight
Silverback gorilla waterboarding all these Bathing Apes
Slaughter more emcees till they get their bars up-
Keep at it till Ali says, “Chee it’s Eid Mubarak’.
Born into a war with burning tires ‘round my neck
And the sound of death playin’ loud on my deck
It’s now time, chow time, I want my pound of flesh.

Verse 2
Back for the soundset, fired off an ounce or less
Genuine HP, never settle for the counterfeit
These dudes claim it’s new school with that stick and move
I move forward and counter it, connect till they out of it,
Centrifugal force from the outer limit
This is style without a gimmick, cut to the chase
So I can, check if they listen when I hit ‘em with the algorithm
The true and living words married to rhythm
We paint sound visions, 20/20 with the laser incision
It’s clear beyond pair when we clear the air here still driven
We top gear, rolling through dudes need to lock the lair
The rhymes touch the sky and knock you off the air
Headphone raps, lyrics box your ears
The veteran—Rainman the antique, polished and clear
I shine through, focus and fire and light the fuse.

Verse 3
Streets stopped watching so rappers went corporate
We hang ‘em by their ties and apply that Blackwater torture
For backwater daughters, sons, for backdoor abortions
Back alley commerce, crack whores and their orphans
We blood money sponsored from crack war fortunes
That Reagan era rap, on trial in the courtroom.
You fucks this is rap: needles, ego, and wax
That RUN D.M.C. steez in all tuxedo black
Macaca with an attitude, ethos of the trapped
Peephole, latchkey, 20 people in the shack
Hunger pains and growls in stereo when my pen moves
Sit at the table or find yourself on the menu
Pickled in the beast’s bell—human buillon cube
Parade my ugly-rap full on nude
And some of ya’ll cool till you started talkin’ reckless
Campaigning for an ass whooping, I’ll help you get elected.
Track Name: Anyway (Feat. Ardamus)
I’m back spittin’ that gaudy rap
That shorty swag rap with a hot toddy flask
Rowdy Roddy Piper pile-driver drop his ass
Rhyme writer, refined mind that brought it back
Save your autograph, I stamp mine on bodycasts
They’re Clottey ass-I Pacquiao them then I caught a cab
For my audience, except we on a spotty ave.
Rock that ‘Knock Knock’ joint for my Hollis cats—
Mo spit his verse, Queens asked, “where the body bags?
Or where Gotti at? Who organized that sort of wrath?”
We don’t holler back, spit raps, swallow that
And call us back when your numbers look like college math
I know I sound like an ass, I acknowledge that
But these raps don’t write themselves, that’s where my solace at
You don’t like it? Here’s my knob, go on polish that-
Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t see them dollar stacks.

Verse 2
It’s that Burning Tire Artisan,
That yearning for the higher self when it’s dark again
The hard parts to start, stop, then start again
In a parked car spilling gin on my cardigan
Feeling harder since, Mo said, “we barging in.”
Harking back to the point of my origin
Coins in my pocket coppin’ clothes out that bargain bin
Peep my arc again, that IMI marketing
Fly to death like Saudi pilots seeking martyrdom
Gave it all I had yet still you want more from him
Middle finger up, A-L-I said, “Orient them.”
T said, “Subtitle it, they treat you like a foreign film.”

Verse 3
Ignite start car fires
Rinse mouths hard barb wire
Flavored smoothies, Take your groupie
And make a movie Called gaming Suzie
..Or Taming Lucy
Whatever sounds better bro
Perverted nerd who not street credible
Cause I never sold white man
Look on Facebook I lose a few white fans
Now, I need a new nice dance
Hipster chicks bleed through their white pants
Bad Santa in the summer I drop in
Got a head start to piss on your stockin'
Hold fights, I'm pickin' grudges
Poetry slam and drop kick the judges
Brass knuckle finger bang, yeah I'm singin' strange
Toilet water in your brain, yeah, we're gonna need to drain
Track Name: Kandahar Cruise (Feat. Amitava Kumar)
Rubber tires burn, Cathedral ceilings peeling
Glass stained saints crumble on parishioners kneeling
Hare Krishnas appealing, to westerners reeling
Madrassas from Madras, Mombasa to New Zealand
Fuel zeal and hope, demonstrations on the street
Effigies on fire, memos placed in a jeep
Along with a phone patched through from the Green Zone
My song is the ring-tone that triggers that bomb,
Brings along a mourning mob of twenty wailing moms—
Non-stop sirens, more burning tires
Snipers on minarets with rifles firing
Woke up coughing up spurts of blood on my tunic
Alarm clock blasting, woke up to my music
Rose to my feet, slipped on my swooshes, -
On a stroll to understand the dark hearts of men…
That Burning Tire Artisan.
Track Name: Sedgwick Ave (Feat. Mo)
Verse 1
To my saints, to my sinners, to my gangsters in Gotham
….how it feel to be a problem?
Being young, being brown, being clocked by that squadron
Robbing, killing, dealing out your apartment.
…as hard as you are
if you really want to scare ‘em get a library card
I’m an inner-city griot, raised on public education
Facin’ high blood pressure, and lowered expectations
Sick of waitin’—Jack Kevorkian my patience (patients)
Orchestrate a morbid rap orgy in my basement
Rape breaks, rape snares, no sultry glances
Ya’ll romance this game, I gave the game a Dirty Sanchez
….for the several that doubt me
open your mouth and catch this verbal bukake
we where Hip Hop lives, they just rent sick pads
and I rep rap hard like I’m from Sedgwick Ave

Verse 2
To my fam, to my friends, to my folks in the struggle
…who love it that I hustle
doubled up on my will knowin’ doubts could crush dude
trust truth and walk along the path of the just few
..i’m a kinder place
spend time with these minors tryna help them find their place
when they get out of line, remind them, “rewind that tape”
make em say, “that ain’t a phrase that’s a meat grinder blade”
gut ‘em Halal style, bleed them out on stage
let the crowd tape away, upload the feed to their Myspace…
(wrong)..this ain’t politically correct—
(nah) this might offend your internet connects.
Dimwits, tweet this, grab my cock, follow it
Your career lies in ruins like an archaeologist
Craft coffins, put your top ten up in it scoffin’
Your crib’s a tomb, someone send Lara Croft in.

Verse 3
For the hunger for the hustle for the future for the youngsters.
I do this for the culture.
I do this with a passion of nobody thats amongst us
Teach me how to dougie I rather you Fredrick Douglass
See what they lacking in substance
they try to make up with a dance or acts that are fashioned rambunctious.
But when it come to writing verses, rap flows and functions, I'm eating peoples lunches
My tongue's dipped in tungsten.
Plus my crew is like the Munsters
We speak in mantras.
Surpass any level.
IMI the clicka and Im back in the schedule,
Hear ya shitty verses and I have a little giggle
At times I feel like Malcolm Little turning competition into Malcolm in the Middle
How can individuals?
Come and test the talent as sharp as a talon on a soaring falcon when he rips you
Understand he gets you
With the only goal to destroy and rebuild them
To a New kingdom.
Competition, killed them. Cus the flow sicker than blankets given by Pilgrims, you still feel him?
Its like my whole organization practice gentrification. IMI we in the building.
Track Name: Knock Knock (Feat. Mo)
Feat. Mo
Verse 1
Knock Knock, your boy knocked the door of the hinges
The flow’s so vicious, comatose four ninjas,
Injures four shoguns, nunchuks spun till the last foe is thrown in
Caskets open, till the last foe is thrown in
It’s Ronin, honin’, in our zone, and
The omen: some horsemen shoutin’ out my slogan
Zone is Machida’s, you playin’ Hulk Hogan?
Purple plum pulp, while my circle bump gums
Translatin’ what I did to an awestruck Joe Rogan
…your boy gettin’ open
broke and numb from smoke and Puerto Rican rum
leave ‘em choked done, from quotes colder than mortician’s thumbs
born from a vision bred livin’ in slums
my force is a core splittin’ sum
the innermost ring of vicious distant sun

Verse 2
Stop, drop, shut ‘em down this ain’t button down rap
Scrapyard flag wavin’, rudeboy sound clash
…East Indian Maaga man.
Armor on, I salvaged from places where the havoc plays
get fed a knuckle sandwich, have a taste
same recipe Bernard made to serve Kelly Pavlik’s face
last bastard from a rabid race
Acid faced and lackin’ the pastors faith
unlocked language and cracked the master’s safe
Heir ascendent, I’m takin’ your starter’s place
ace…(cheese)Chee’s hard to grate
your boy barged the gates
bars charred, embers flicker when I start another slaughter touring
surf sound waves, hang ten, my slang tends to water board ‘em
approach is a vocal chokehold, the dope flow is Kalari
brother be cautious, I’m locked on the Octagon
won’t opt to calm till I drop heads or atleast pop an arm

Verse 3
Aint no debate to say this
Chee Malabar the greatest
Writer you ever heard,
MO just plain outrageous.
My flow phenomenal. Should be on honor roll.
Address you lames like envelopes in thoughts that I chronicle.
I got the body blow flow, punchlines and entire body chokeholds, metaphors that break boards in karate dojos
Think you hot? Nobody know though. While my name ring bells like Quasimoto.
Your peeps dont make a peep up on the beat. We beast ready to eat, we wolves ready to creep, you sheep.
We use you as material for the next IMI tee, thus ya team get treated like fleece.
Embarrasing. In comparison to the top levels of the Sheraton, son you sweet/suite.
Call me the most furious, unruliest, rappers get called out like Juliet.
To honor this, anonymous, hip hop novelist, trying to keep my head above water like hippopatmous.
Roam through ya metropolis like please stop this shit.
All you muthafuckas sound the same, you homonyms.
Track Name: Harsh Truth
Let me just be forward, I think you’re gorgeous
Thank my lucks stars just circling your orbit
Dinner dates, roses, you know I can’t afford it
Hop my neighbor’s yard though, and cut you out an orchid.
Before you I thought booty calls was courtship
Horseshit I learned pimp limpin’ into manhood
By the kitchen sink makin’ dinner outta canned goods
You ain’t judge, knowin’ it was all I could offer
Pauper prince, only dreams in my coffer
Such a cliché, you’re with a struggling rocker
Juggling jobs just to show my hurt locker
Gave it all I had just to get what I have
A few chicks, a few friends, I’ve lost on that path
I ain’t mad, I understand, cause I’m one strange cat
Thanks for lovin’ my strangeness
You’re gracious, ageless, something so ancient

Verse 2
Guess he’s still reelin’ from that trauma still
When you left and mama put on that armor shield
Hard to think how she dealt with seeing your face in his
Finding him in tears, mad, defacing all your shit.
In your room with a handful of paint
Trying to picture you back in his life, straddling the pain.
Respect the fact that you got him out of that shithole
Said why piss in the wind when you know where the wind blows
But it ain’t the simple when you’re ‘round about six though
Saw you at eight, then again at eleven
Grown ass man, dog, you can get to steppin’
Disaffected, nonchalance was his weapon—
All along all he wanted was to be adored
But those stops and starts left him feelin’ scorned
I know it’s in the past and I probably shouldn’t complain
But somedays I see that child see the world through my gaze.
Track Name: Good Ones (Feat. Anand Subramanian)
Hey young love where you hide these days?
I know it’s been a decade since I saw your face
Came across it as I cleaned out my crib
Us making out in that booth in that pic
You made a fuss about cause it showed your crooked tooth
I said ‘I loved it, adored it,’ it gave you character
You smiled at me and said, ‘no game, you’re an amateur.’
Before the damage came, an average Jane
Is how you saw yourself, and to bandage pain
You downed yourself, while I drowned myself
In newfound vices: weed and Bourbon tumblers
Remember that summer when the sun burned humble?
My bird of paradise in an urban jungle
That version got crumbled as new moons rose
Pick apart the petals, the bloom is off the rose
I know you’re not the one but I had to let you know

Craving the parade of lights, the way we kissed
Savoring the days and nights, so hard to resist
Nothing else even existed

Verse 2
Ran into a pal I hadn’t seen in a while
She put me up on your whereabouts and said you had a child
Said the baby’s healthy and she looks just like you
Noticed you gave her the name you said you would in High School
…if we ever had a daughter
I guess congratulations are in order
Thanks for asking ‘bout me and if I still stay faded
The short answer’s no, so I guess I’m rehabilitated
Asked ‘bout my life, so our mutual friend played it
-you said the track about my mom was your favorite
…but I guess you’re still jaded
since you said the art was better than the man who made it
my life’s an open book, every blank spot get’s painted
you’re a part of that old pain that needs it’s own paint , shit
…I know our past is ancient,
You’re a part of that old paint that needs its own paint

The stain of it, the blame of it, I used to ignore
I changed for it, I aged for it, you walked out that door
Ohh..forever more

Verse 3
Sober nights, drunk mornings: same routine for months
Slumped on the A train and felt a foot on my dunks
Looked up screwfaced like, ‘yo! What the…”
Saw this guy with you girl, you ain’t acknowledge my mug
Strolled right by with that heron chic model strut
Used to take two trains and a local Hollis bus
Just to come and see you, even skipped college for a month.
Here we are now you puttin’ on fronts
Strokin’ his fat face and feedin’ him tongue
Actin’ your shoe size and speakin’ in dumb
While he smugly chews gum and murmurs some cool
I can smell the stench of money on his Brooks Brothers suit-
I can see your life in pictures: Hampton summers and views
A Conde Nast catalog come to life
Fat cribs, fat kids, then your friends will say divorce him
Guess you can thank me for stressin’ that abortion.
Track Name: Let the Great World Spin (Feat. Toki Wright)
Feat. Toki Wright
Verse 1
Young love with her duffel bag on a midnight train
headed far from here, where city lights don’t drown stars
Where city parks don’t remind you of those scars
Findin’ mom and her lover sleeping under a praka they shared
Shared needles on the ground, left their carcasses their
Baby brother’s day care is being harnessed to a street pharmacist’s care
Chained to a chair, petting a German Shepherd’s hair
Yeah…he turned six last week
Birthday present was a funeral suit sittin’ front seat
Watching you weep as child services creeps
Promised him a loving home, school and healthcare
Freed from your burdens now your mind’s on St. Elsewhere
Where the grass is green, where the air is crisp
Where the people are kind, where they know what fairness is
No more embarrassment of being an heiress to this mess she inherited
Let the great world spin

Snow globe with your dreams and hopes
Turn it upside down, shake it up, let it settle and then
Shake it again…and let the great world spin

Verse 2
Toki Wright
Possibilities endless, the sky is unlimited, limitless
Off to the wild world wilderness with a one way ticket
Cross the boulevard of broken dreams and burning bridges
And it won’t extinguish, witness to the world’s cruelty
And its beauty intertwined, either side live or die
Answering the great question why, reply was why not
She said she found everything that I lost
…like hope for a sense of purpose
found the world, gained a soul, it was only worth it
maybe on the surface we think we know a person
we pass judgements, I once slipped a hundreds
..but you never know the path, journey, road
that another goes finding their way home from the gray zone
she left a letter and escaped in the wind
it read, “let the great world spin.”

Verse 3
Young love with her duffle bag, washed up on the Sunset strip
Thinkin’ that it’s better here, on a gum speckled sidewalk
That gunmetal sheen of cool, life in high glass
Panhandling, Los Angeles mannequin
Got in with a crew of squatters the day she got here
Took a liking to this cat who said he liked girls with blond hair
Copped a bottle of bleach, got with his program
Sexing to a death metal song like it’s a slow jam
Love is grand, it’s four weeks in
Fast forward--four months, girl’s shrinking reed thin
Drinking binges, syringes, and her lover’s long gone
Pain tatted on her face with that Crystal Meth font
Squat to squat, cock to cock
Got nothing left to say unless you talk that gwop
Righteously proud of being an heiress to this mess she inherited
Sayin’, ‘let the great world spin.’
Track Name: Unbearable Sweetness
Verse 1
For that little man he used to be
Movin’ with the Bough brothers through the mall boostin’ jeans
Cruising streets with a boombox, Cube playing loud
Till his mama heard him curse and told him, “get in the house”.
…straight to his room
that he shares with baby sis who’s laughing like a goon
for the man that he hoped to be
quoting dope emcees, he even stole their steez
hoping what he wrote’s dope and he won’t get teased—
didn’t happen, but he steady kept rappin’
for the man that he might be in the end
beyond ambitions, he wants to be worthy of his friends
same ones who take his call at the height of the night
connect the dots and give shape to his type of life
for the fans who told a friend, ‘this is my friend go and peep it.’
For the grown man pickin’ up all the pieces
For the folk in his life for their unbearable sweetness

Verse 2
For all the things he used to dream of
Feet up on mama’s sofa, speakin’ on a green touch
Tone phone she said he couldn’t use until he cleaned up—
Girl laughed on the other end, he called her a mean slut
Back when kindness didn’t mean much
For that kid that felt bad and expressed his teen love
For that girl that saw through it and shot him a mean mug
… for love and its limits
for first love and all the girls he cheated on her with
for the wrongs he tried to right but left off his lips
…first fights and split lips
for his niece’s soft snores, coughs, and kid fits
…for his last and only
one who makes him feel just a little less lonely
for the younger version of his mom tired and sleepless
for the dreams of that child in their unbearable sweetness