R.I.P
[Verse 1: Sweetheartz]
People don't make history
History makes history, yo
People test people
I found the elementary school about a minute past Go
Keys in my pockets, sweat pants hanging down so my shorts can show
Unquestionable creditials to mix tracks, bother the mic, turn this burb city to turbo
With the country leads, flip a frown upside and the crowd's down all because of my swanky sway and flow
Rawr! Wait! No. But is it the law of nature to turn the right way on the one-way street, get born, then grow mature, make a living, meet somebody, make a baby, just move your feet?
Anyway, I got the truck unloaded, with the help of my boy Mike
Got teased about the farm where I handle like it's some great writ of right
(More like a mountain than a mole hill site.)
We got everything set up on stage, did the show
His girl got in a car accident, started texting him over the phone
So I did what I do, rather have him made at me that you, I tell him something he can come back to, and now we're started all for the wrong reasons
The kids have decorated the walls here but not with hand-painted leaves or hand-prints or turkeys for the Fall Season, with the resting place of words they don't want to hear every day
The overused, plain ones; a graveyard of cliches, and I'm loving it now they're suggesting new ones
On tombstones, each kid's poem's rap lines when I hear them in my headphones
For instance, "small" is overuled and not allowed. I guess it's R.I.P dead
Instead, incorporate "petite," for instance, and a couple more of which this kid said, and I'm wondering cuz I'm hood, will they bury it with them, uncover it in a pile of keepsakes
And I don't know, why were some of these words read?
The walls are plastered with the lyrics of the lives these kids led
I'm a misfit in an art project or a brainstorm of a teacher at a intersection by the sign-in for the bathroom, and now I better get back to work, but I don't wanna leave
But I breathe in the inspiration, or the forgers and rule dictation, a hallway of musical deadication on the syntax of constipation
People don't make history
History makes history, yo
People test people
Get it? What comes after that? There's nothing left. It's stubborn. Shows over, we pack up. The minutes so still
We're running back ups across town, we'll hollow halls fill
I follow your car wherever it leads, you take all the right turns: over the bridge, through the city, over the highway, and suddenly money is getting earned before I can mentally complain one more time
So we're kickin it out back beside the water-pump
Talking like real people, the "who is your mate, what are we waiting for, when are we done suffering, where is your mate emploding, why shouldn't we
Be taking digs on the road to getting better or learning from the steeple that our lives are meant to be just how they are?"
And it took me back to Mr. Sean who said, "People don't make history, yo, history makes history," before the words got blown out of all of us when he died
And what-for? People test people, and they do it best because that's what the tests are for
It's your life, so you're gonna live it live or get personal. I know I just said "or", but it's small
My last night, my eyes bright, the clouded sky is my dance floor
So pick up your feet, take off your shoes and your shirt, you're fresh meat and I'm not waiting around cuz I been there before
So you don't have to smoke cuz you look so raw sipping from the hose at the end of the pump. I saw
As I prove to you my boobs are as dense as they feel, I'm so chill with it, let's talk reel
I'll keep your secrets if you tell me too, but I bet you and I make fun of
The way you and I deal
People don't make history
History makes history, yo
People test people
