The Sayer
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The Sayer
The travellers path, was perilous to average cats,
Carried a back pack which contained a double edged axe
He roamed through wastelands in the darkest of days
Where many had forsaken and even forgotten the way
He was from 1 of the five tribes who were given the truth
To preserve, through the art that they kicked as the proof
He drank from eternal streams, below the earth
Where water was clean, on the surface nothing was all that it seemed
Hordes of marauding warlords were out looking for wealth
A and R scouts found those who weren’t moving in stealth
Brainwashed, they were sent out to steal from their own
Using the sacred art, they wasted the ink for the poems
Took the blue pigment, mixed it with the blood of their victims
To make green which was worshipped in this time that they lived in
He had arisen for this mission to inspire the vision
Of small communities of people who still required the spitting
Of a Sayer, he was one of the last of the tribe
When he approached the people shouted that a master’s arrived
And they would bring out the boombap giving him the rhythm
To begin to spill out all the epics he had written
He spoke of history and the future interweaving
Words dancing on his tongue that would leave the people dreaming
Not in a sleep state but spiritually awakened
The future was theirs for the taking
And then he’d move on, before dawn couldn’t stay for too long
His job done when the ones he encountered grew strong
This was his calling, carving out kings from slaves
And he survived of their love and the gifts they gave
The world had seen many changes over the ages
Like it was dying, in his heart he was hoping to save it
They had known, the path had chosen him, when he was born
His heartbeat matched the drum he would later be speaking on
He had arrived on the planet in dangerous times
When masses were blinded by liars faking the rhyme
So began his journey, like the ancients known as the griots
He met imprisoned minds and he chanted rhymes to free those
Was long since he had met a clan of his peeps
But today he could hear a beatbox in the east
There were 6 masters in a circle and each
Spoke free, tapping into realm that they had breached
One man covered his mouth as he gave them the beat
He approached and said peace and he started to speak
The ancient ritual of the cypher was complete
Each were celebrated coz every style was unique
They lost track of time, it lasted 3 hours or more
But they were stronger now, replenished, not tired at all
After, they broke bread and went their separate ways
He roamed alone till the end of his days
Deck Spinners were rare in the land he was from
The 1st tribe kicked the art in its earliest form
He heard scratching and he knew that a masters at work
Then saw the tribe whose physical wasn’t attached to the earth
The Clan who gave an A class performance in accordance
With (the) rotating of the wax and the breaks in the recordings
Spun on their heads enough to turn the tables around
Sometimes they battled, with the iller crew taking the crown
Long before he had been told that the cities would fall
The only thing that would be left was the graffiti on walls
He met scribes who touched buildings with aerosol cans
Leaving visual poetry sharper than the arrows of man
Was heavens design, the way the colours swam in his mind
But these creations were vandalism to the blind
So his generation’s versions of Picasso were hunted
For leaving beauty marks where the ugliness what they wanted
When stars aligned, 5 from each tribe would collide
The dark side couldn’t survive through the vibe they’d provide
So he was watchful for the relevant time
When he’d represent his clan and let his element shine
He honed skills, roamed still, beyond hills, in worn heels
The wrong field if you wanted to know how home feels
Both feared and loved, an enigma to most
In parched lands, one man was a river of hope
THE SAYER
The travellers path, was perilous to average cats,
Carried a back pack which contained a double edged axe
He roamed through wastelands in the darkest of days
Where many had forsaken and even forgotten the way
He was from 1 of the five tribes who were given the truth
To preserve, through the art that they kicked as the proof
He drank from eternal streams, below the earth
Where water was clean, on the surface nothing was all that it seemed
Hordes of marauding warlords were out looking for wealth
A and R scouts found those who weren’t moving in stealth
Brainwashed, they were sent out to steal from their own
Using the sacred art, they wasted the ink for the poems
Took the blue pigment, mixed it with the blood of their victims
To make green which was worshipped in this time that they lived in
He had arisen for this mission to inspire the vision
Of small communities of people who still required the spitting
Of a Sayer, he was one of the last of the tribe
When he approached the people shouted that a master’s arrived
And they would bring out the boombap giving him the rhythm
To begin to spill out all the epics he had written
He spoke of history and the future interweaving
Words dancing on his tongue that would leave the people dreaming
Not in a sleep state but spiritually awakened
The future was theirs for the taking
And then he’d move on, before dawn couldn’t stay for too long
His job done when the ones he encountered grew strong
This was his calling, carving out kings from slaves
And he survived of their love and the gifts they gave
The world had seen many changes over the ages
Like it was dying, in his heart he was hoping to save it
They had known, the path had chosen him, when he was born
His heartbeat matched the drum he would later be speaking on
He had arrived on the planet in dangerous times
When masses were blinded by liars faking the rhyme
So began his journey, like the ancients known as the griots
He met imprisoned minds and he chanted rhymes to free those
Was long since he had met a clan of his peeps
But today he could hear a beatbox in the east
There were 6 masters in a circle and each
Spoke free, tapping into realm that they had breached
One man covered his mouth as he gave them the beat
He approached and said peace and he started to speak
The ancient ritual of the cypher was complete
Each were celebrated coz every style was unique
They lost track of time, it lasted 3 hours or more
But they were stronger now, replenished, not tired at all
After, they broke bread and went their separate ways
He roamed alone till the end of his days
Deck Spinners were rare in the land he was from
The 1st tribe kicked the art in its earliest form
He heard scratching and he knew that a masters at work
Then saw the tribe whose physical wasn’t attached to the earth
The Clan who gave an A class performance in accordance
With (the) rotating of the wax and the breaks in the recordings
Spun on their heads enough to turn the tables around
Sometimes they battled, with the iller crew taking the crown
Long before he had been told that the cities would fall
The only thing that would be left was the graffiti on walls
He met scribes who touched buildings with aerosol cans
Leaving visual poetry sharper than the arrows of man
Was heavens design, the way the colours swam in his mind
But these creations were vandalism to the blind
So his generation’s versions of Picasso were hunted
For leaving beauty marks where the ugliness what they wanted
When stars aligned, 5 from each tribe would collide
The dark side couldn’t survive through the vibe they’d provide
So he was watchful for the relevant time
When he’d represent his clan and let his element shine
He honed skills, roamed still, beyond hills, in worn heels
The wrong field if you wanted to know how home feels
Both feared and loved, an enigma to most
In parched lands, one man was a river of hope
THE SAYER
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