(spoken)
Sage Francis...Personal Journalist, 1968 to 2001
(Verse 1)
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating Cause
there still debating over what rhyme skill is
Sick of waiting for time killers to get over there murder raps
And then he sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure
Seek for closure but stayed open minded
Always seemed to keep composure, peeking over both his eyelids
Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra violence
Teaching others how to be more loving with brotherly guidance
A bleeding soldier knows the science
He does the math quick and writes without having to think twice
Without asking for advice, letting the scalps peel
Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal
His death mask conceals his face paint
It feels like a safe place, but it ain't
Feels like its safety seals faith, but it don't
He's not a real saint, just another one of those religious political jokes
And that's not even half of the nutshell
Cats are compelled to crack open and extract his blood cells
From, when he comes back from hell again
He'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton
(over scratching)
Sage Francis...anti-socialite...secret admirer
Student loaner...continental drifter...professional day lifter
Spin doctor...self-referentialist...personal journalist
(bridge)
Word, its the worthless wordsmiths
We're conversing with impersonal twists
Heard the concern with making the Earth ship
These kid games are silly
When all art is signed anonymous
He'll turn that big bang theory into a small pop hypothesis
(spoken)
Sage Francis...death merchant...1968 to 2001
Devoted son, father to none
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