OnTheAir420
06-15-2007, 05:40 AM
FATHER AUTHOR, POOR PAUPER... YEA...
(more than a microphone monster)
Once upon a midnight dreary//
being blackballed by the music industry prepared me//
in the past, albums were made, put on the shelf//
I was never paid or given the wealth, who can I blame but myself?//
No one, I followed my azimuth in transit//
on the path from apprentice to master//
my testimony any place at the top is lonely//
ask me what I cherish mostly, no matter what I say is poetry//
the way I walk, the way I talk, the way I fought//
the way I won, the way I lost, the way I THOUGHT//
when they tried to play me out as a man//
the way it felt taking showers in the sand w/ a fuel can//
waking up in the middle of the night, I can't breathe right//
I can feel my heart beat spike//
Father Author Poor Pauper used to be a war monger//
I promised the Lord I would not tour any longer//
Pardon the Poor Pauper with nothing to offer from his coffin//
coughing up a mouthful of volcanic sulfur//
Fiest your eyes on the awesome mechanics of the metallic saucers//
flown by man, I bet you thought it was a martian//
since Channel Zero, I tried to do something to save you//
but you threw away the jewels I gave you//
When you ready to move to the mountains it'll be too late to//
that's why I pray for you//
my words appear clear but true meaning is lost//
why would an MC like that even talk?//
clear your mind, clear your thoughts//
throw away everything you bought, and kneel before the Ark//
you dumb fucks you knew that you should but you won't//
any artist will become lethargic from weed smoke//
I don't go to malls because I don't like shopping//
I can't buy clothes when the mannequins are watching//
over-specialization doesn't require special explanation//
the information is my interpretation//
I sit down at the table and make it//
through a series of musical, lyrical and compositional arrangement//
I'm disinfatuated, you rappers are overrated//
for the music you making, it sounds foolish and basic//
thread by thread the poem is woven, the book is open//
you are ordered to show him, then the words are spoken//
civilization is fragile, so is life's endearing battle//
so is nature when surrounded by the unnatural//
walk through the doors at Langley headquarters//
my logo, is in the floor, etched in marble//
behind the rose line, morals and dogma that rhyme to climb//
one of three peaks of Mt Hermon during my lifetime//
the rhyme is 3.1-4-5, 9-2-6-5, 3-5-8-9//
same morning that the Can-I-Bus album came out//
I gotta text from the NSA that said they'd take me out//
kabbalah math, was all I had//
my wife and child were both killed in a helicopter crash//
eight months pass, I'm in Walter Reed with a rare fungus rash//
I told 'em Fuck the cash//
just give me something for the pain//
my brain about to bust a vein//
they said You been through enough Germaine//
I tried to sit up, but can't get up, this sucks//
Father Author Poor Pauper can't give up//
the bio-marker lit up, the lab tech took the blood that I spit up//
she tried to screen it, then clean it//
hydroxide radicals I couldn't believe it//
I was the anemic heathen that was saved by the blood of Jesus//
my only grievance is I'll never be the same again//
never be able to rhyme like it was '98 again//
I'm so ashamed I'm depressed, I don't know what I could say to them//
so I made this mix tape for them//
I hope you enjoy it even if you never bought it//
this is Father Author Poor Pauper's last recording...
(more than a microphone monster)
Once upon a midnight dreary//
being blackballed by the music industry prepared me//
in the past, albums were made, put on the shelf//
I was never paid or given the wealth, who can I blame but myself?//
No one, I followed my azimuth in transit//
on the path from apprentice to master//
my testimony any place at the top is lonely//
ask me what I cherish mostly, no matter what I say is poetry//
the way I walk, the way I talk, the way I fought//
the way I won, the way I lost, the way I THOUGHT//
when they tried to play me out as a man//
the way it felt taking showers in the sand w/ a fuel can//
waking up in the middle of the night, I can't breathe right//
I can feel my heart beat spike//
Father Author Poor Pauper used to be a war monger//
I promised the Lord I would not tour any longer//
Pardon the Poor Pauper with nothing to offer from his coffin//
coughing up a mouthful of volcanic sulfur//
Fiest your eyes on the awesome mechanics of the metallic saucers//
flown by man, I bet you thought it was a martian//
since Channel Zero, I tried to do something to save you//
but you threw away the jewels I gave you//
When you ready to move to the mountains it'll be too late to//
that's why I pray for you//
my words appear clear but true meaning is lost//
why would an MC like that even talk?//
clear your mind, clear your thoughts//
throw away everything you bought, and kneel before the Ark//
you dumb fucks you knew that you should but you won't//
any artist will become lethargic from weed smoke//
I don't go to malls because I don't like shopping//
I can't buy clothes when the mannequins are watching//
over-specialization doesn't require special explanation//
the information is my interpretation//
I sit down at the table and make it//
through a series of musical, lyrical and compositional arrangement//
I'm disinfatuated, you rappers are overrated//
for the music you making, it sounds foolish and basic//
thread by thread the poem is woven, the book is open//
you are ordered to show him, then the words are spoken//
civilization is fragile, so is life's endearing battle//
so is nature when surrounded by the unnatural//
walk through the doors at Langley headquarters//
my logo, is in the floor, etched in marble//
behind the rose line, morals and dogma that rhyme to climb//
one of three peaks of Mt Hermon during my lifetime//
the rhyme is 3.1-4-5, 9-2-6-5, 3-5-8-9//
same morning that the Can-I-Bus album came out//
I gotta text from the NSA that said they'd take me out//
kabbalah math, was all I had//
my wife and child were both killed in a helicopter crash//
eight months pass, I'm in Walter Reed with a rare fungus rash//
I told 'em Fuck the cash//
just give me something for the pain//
my brain about to bust a vein//
they said You been through enough Germaine//
I tried to sit up, but can't get up, this sucks//
Father Author Poor Pauper can't give up//
the bio-marker lit up, the lab tech took the blood that I spit up//
she tried to screen it, then clean it//
hydroxide radicals I couldn't believe it//
I was the anemic heathen that was saved by the blood of Jesus//
my only grievance is I'll never be the same again//
never be able to rhyme like it was '98 again//
I'm so ashamed I'm depressed, I don't know what I could say to them//
so I made this mix tape for them//
I hope you enjoy it even if you never bought it//
this is Father Author Poor Pauper's last recording...