space_monkey

Mr. Lif, Live from the plantation

"Oh my fucking god man, ahhh, fucking serious...
Jesus Christ, man, already?
Man, time flies like a motherfucker."
Rise and shine!
Yet another day to toss away.
What does my clock display?
It says eight.
Shit, I'm late for work again, so then
I dip with my pad and my pen.
Step into the work place with my work face,
wince at my time card, 'cause I'm scarred.
Mad, 'cause I sacrifice my day and gets me
a trifling hourly wage of six fifty - nifty!
Now I'm off to slave quarters
with a whole bunch of other people's sons and daughters.
Working so they can be mothers and fathers,
laboring real hard, hoping the boss offers
more petty cash to his bums and paupers
kissing his ass, 'cause they hoping they prosper...
Here's the math:
You work a third of your day, away
The government takes a third of your check -- correct!
You go home and drink, 'cause you don't get
an ounce of respect, and your spirit is wrecked.
Life is a gift to be enjoyed, every second, every minute.
It's temporary, not infinite.
Yet I find myself looking at the clock
hoping for the day to fly by, so I ask myself: "Why?"
I'm doing this remedial work for second graders
I'm an educator with mega-flavor, so
Maybe I should just jump up and get ill,
maybe I should let these people know they're being killed,
maybe I should try my very best to chill, and get paid,
cause I gotta pay bills, raa!

"Excuse me brother, can you please stop making that noise
so I can talk? Thank you. Now the boss says he wants you to come up
with more copies of these checks, and the last thing he wants is you to
move the desk to the basement, and can I have this stapler?"
("Hey there, champ, big boss man says you been late
3 days in a row, better sharpen up!")

Aw, this fucking place sucks - same shit everyday.
Like to wring the boss' neck though, if only dreams could come true...

Dead boss, somebody call Red Cross
I guess he got caught up in my mental holocaust.
How much did it cost?
Just a little piece of my mind for peace of mind.
"But he's bleeding!"
Oh no, leave him. He'll be fine,
he'll heal on his own,
if you just give him some time,
considering the fact that his face is misaligned,
his legs are over there lying right next to his spine.

"Lunchtime!" Huh? Oh, Jesus, must have been daydreaming.

My boss walks by, he's looking just like an asshole,
smiling because he jerks niggas for minimum cash flow.
He's cool to my face, but I swear I heard him laugh, though,
tickled by the fact that I'm the modern day Sambo.
And just when I think that I'm about to go Rambo,
I call up my man and he says he understands, yo.
We all are being murdered by a similar process
whether you work at the candy store
or slave at the office.
The purpose of our life is just to serve the economy.
They misinform our minds to paint a picture of harmony.
But if you listen, then you know that shit's out of tune,
cause the function of our life is just to work and consume.
Fuck reaching out to help the next, there ain't any room.
Just close your eyes and block your ears and march to your doom.
But since I really ain't getting paid for my time,
I pulled out my pen and started writing a rhyme.
Can't you see that I'm busy, jerk?
Don't you dare approach me with busy work,
take another step and get hurt
by the man that embodies mad years of anger.
A cool bro, soon to be the Boston Strangler,
everything inside of me is about to erupt,
cause a righteous individual just likes to corrupt.
I knew he'd lock me up if I started a brawl,
so I deaden, and I punch the clock the fuck off the wall:

"Yea that's right, motherfucker,
you can't keep underpaying people and mistreating them all the time!
That's gonna result in crime!
As a matter of fact, you know what?
Faks, yo cut this motherfucker, man."