VERSE ONE (Lewis M.)
I'd like to apologize
to not you motherfucker.
Stubborn till I’m midichlorian.
Rode in a Taurus, I done forced it.
Beat so fucking sick,
I think I’m feeling kinda nauseous.
In the booth with a hazmat suit.
Call it uncute.
Toxic Avenger, nigga.
Troma rap in scribble pads.
Almost out of ink,
self-erasing greatness, gift of gab
obsolete like Hardy, Matt.
See, when I spit, it’s literal.
Drool dripping down the
microphone. Hysterical.
LOL at any idea
that my shit will last past
that moment when the casket drops,
after my last gasp.
After suit fittings and
embalming cocktails.
It does not fail to amaze.
Now watch my fanbase
explode overnight from like
six to maybe hundreds mo’.
So, maybe death will fix
my problems with self-promotion.
Whatever. When I drop this,
I’ll burn all of my clothes
and belongings, and move
to the woods with a pack
of wolves as my homies.

CHORUS X2
(Jesse The Tree)
Museums & Mausoleums.
Where my thoughts end up
Museums & Mausoleums.
Where my art hangs up.
(Lewis M.)
Museums & Mausoleums.
Where they bump my shit.
Museums & Mausoleums.
Where they print my lit.

VERSE TWO (Jesse The Tree)
Will I ever be immortalized?
Shit, I don't know if I'm that sort of guy.
Posthumous thoughts
linger like dinner.
And, I can feel the death centering.
How will the crowd hear
my left out sentences?
When it knocks, will they let 'em in?
So, what's the penance for never
winning the pennant, what's the medicine?
My mind frame is menacing.
My name is everything
and nothing at the same.
The game in grave lines,
from dark to daytime.
We don't just say rhymes.
We cut em up from the gut.
Why front that you very tough
when you could be selling love.
I tried on every glove,
and my hands are full.
So, I'm searching for a balance
while I dance with bulls
to the tune of crushed cans
and some ample hope.
Make sounds to travel lands
til I'm up in smoke.
My notes I never spoke
gonna float back home and glow.
Call it poems from bones
of a soul that's grown.