lyrics crafted to fit an instrumental by The Roots

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT1G9W8Ch1M

Here I come to freshen a scene in history
and let you decipher the truth of mystery
This is for the future of loving unconditionally
In a man-made sea that changes so vigorously

How will we ever learn from the life of 2pac,
when his death signifies a man's ability to self-destruct,
He dies a martyr and you tighten grip on your glock
To raise it is to aim at a bulletproof combination lock.
While the combination requires communal effort to flock,
killing only scares, and segregates the block.
You'd be doing a real deed if you would knock knock knock
On every neighbor's door to invite them out for good times with chalk.

Pac proved to me the value of word-piercing hearts,
Inching inside slowly, indefatiguable light in the dark:
So let it start on your own, loosen the grip on the rock,
With the help of your friends, evetually it'll drop.
In it's place pick up pride, and necessitate a limited stock.
Or it'll go to your head or you'll be gliding like a hawk
And simultaneously sailing away lonely from the dock,
I digress already, easy as that to talk, now let's walk.

Now back to the way Pac did it,
He signified a lot but still lived life livid.
That's not the way to go, though it's good to know,
and store in your brain as a fuel for your own show.
He knew how to address our people like a president,
telling us about change and making it evident,
though he was still addicted...
...fighting was a thing that he appropriated instead of quitted.

Just because it's out of sight doesn't make it right,
a legislation is law-bent nature dealing cards by knight
whose acts of chivalry include crusading with might,
in armor forged from the heat of a flashlight.
So let us banish it clear from the day and the night,
we have the power smother our desires to initiate the bite
Say Farewell and cut off arms like a Monty Python fight,
So we can clothe ourselves from the cause of blight.

Hemingway taught me much through The Old Man and The Sea,
And that a man is only weakened by the oblivion of his enemy.
The body is meant to be destroyed, but definitely not defeated,
That's why we're not told to trick others, or that'll be how you're treated.
A man is fickle when his pride travels too far and goes above the bar
That's mach, an inconsistent top speed, so go slow and tend to more than flow,
Becuase if that's all that matters, mindless radio
Streaming brodcast will freeze your mind to snow.
Anyone has the ability to climb over time,
Set a weapon down and verbalize a chime
As long as committment is instilled
A prophesy will be willed
The time has come to go- go- go
and reach for heights higher than Kilimanjaro.

With patience paired with courage I am slow to climb and stretch,
Call me Mr. Fantastic, Marvel at the ability of a rubber torque wrench.
Words can turn and turn around and relate to state any amount of hate,
But what matters is that Pac's hooks were smart enough to set the bait.
I admire the man for what he said, but now's the time to push it ahead,
If we're not wading our own weight, we're floating upside-downriver dead.
If you're not receiving love from where you want it,
If you're not sending love to where you want it,
If love is not its own messenger,
Then you're aiming at a world through a scope that is haunted.

Increasing Volume Knob Maturity

                  Writing with the smallest possible font to produce the tiniest letters remains the best effort to prevent onlookers from a foray into the valuable words that will fit themselves on the screen in lieu of all of that white space; this which is the equivalent of transcribing melodies from a moving trolley car: Stan Getz is not playing des expressions touriste-amicales on green dolphin street.
                  Descending along Green Dolphin Street at a steady rate of thirteen miles per hour with slight brake application, un messager de velo with warm rubber tires anticipates the next leg of his red-light race in favor of waiting for the man’s next note, and much less for the expression on his face when he releases it. However, having owned a saxophone himself at a beardless age, he sends a courteous nod in the direction of the man embracing the saxophone.
                  A physicist on the trolley sees the barreling bicycle tires and steadily turns his head like he was speed-reading, while pondering a graphical analysis of the 10-degree slope's acquiescence with the time he would need to stop for a red light, and furthermore, at what speed the messenger would feel nearly weightless on that 15-degree tilt.
                  Next to the double-collared professor, a collegiate bicycle racer inspects the single-geared bike for recognizable components and considers how the single-speed does not offer a method to optimize low-gear training. It wouldn’t work for him. His sister half his size holds his hand gleefully, peering out at the world through the legs of people. She doesn't know it, but is glad that trolley cars were built cheaply with insufficient materials to cover the railing with full skirting; otherwise she wouldn’t be able to experience these people, and her free admission would seem to cost an impaired experience.

                  All of these students studying so diligently for mid-terms and finals must be too self-absorbed to worry about this word document, but it is better to be safe than sorry. Simultaneously, distractions avail themselves at no cost; there are so many tight and stretching outfits to turn to and unnoticeably examine. Across the Computer Sea are innumerable screens like white caps on a windy day, with florescent apples bobbing in between.
                  Let me see how productive everyone else is in hope that his or her own focus will inspire my own: a cat in horizontal stripes of blue and baby blue cotton pounces paws onto piano keys. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
                  I might shoot myself. 
                  I don’t know if it will be good, but writing is riskier business in comparison to killing oneself.
                  What if I kill this keyboard? Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
                  The sounds of power are too often positively related to volume; though on the flip side, an inverse relation does not avail the antagonist into a thermal-vision scope. Volume is not intensity, just as the clicks of empty writing are indecipherable from the keystrokes of careful writing.