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"Untitled" lyrics by PUNCH
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[Verse 1:]
Bear witness to the greatest who never made it
But still get mentioned when the topic gets debated
Was subjugated to strays invading my domain
Wasn't concerned with writing phrases for y'all amazement
My upraising was abrasive, my early years
The atmosphere's the subject of rhymesayers
Who wouldn't dare go near there
So let me your ears here, listen up
Let's peel back the top layer
Where you're from you give 'em a blank stare
Cause if you say "nowhere" they gon' ask you where you live
And once you tell 'em "over there", you getting popped anyway
You might as well bang back and rep the section where you stay
That's the project mindstate, kill or be killed
So why wait? The hurdles too high
So we boost the crime rate
Victim of self or victim of state?
Either way, this rhyme book had to wait

"Allow me to re-introduce myself"
"I'm from the hood, I'd never turn my back on it"
"Until then, my feet planted on the ground"

[Verse 2:]
I use the streets as my muse, I'm Langston Hughes
Explaining my views in Corduroy house shoes
House full of goons, ski mask and duct tape
Frustrated cause the coke price fluctuates
Dope spots get shot up, the riders stay
And shoot back, the faint of heart relocate
It's sorta poetic justice in a way
A beautiful tragedy, a Shakespearean fantasy
Revenge, this is Hamlet sanity
Pardon my upbringing I beg your amnesty
Poluted air, contaminated, infested
Poisonous gas spread like the staph infection
Hatch the seed, inception
A dream within a dream
Within a dream things are what they seem
The fear of falling won't stall him
From stomping through the guards like Joseph Stalin
Sleep cautious


[Verse 3:]
I be over niggas heads when I rap about the hood
As simple as that is, it's still misunderstood
I ain't touch the lost Tribe of Kush or Prescott Bush
Pushing the button on Germany's push for dominance
Basking in O'Solomon's ambiance
A Watts prophet, writers workshop
Where biters body-rod started after the Watts riots
In return gave birth to Hip-Hop
Then the feds burned it down, cremated the literature
Thought they got rid of it, but it's a permanent fixture in a bigger picture
In the grand scheme of things
Somewhere between Nat Turner and Martin King
Lies the dreams of an inadequate teen
Whose mommas a crack fiend yet is powerful beyond means
His only fear is himself, so he keep a pistol on him in his belt
Just in case he runs across a mirror
He 'gon kill 'em

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