I rapidly accelerate rapper decomposition from the double helix to the bleedin’ gums from which they’re liftin’ some of the most nonsensical bullshit that, like much before it, doesn’t deserve to be written (but still is). I leapt in God’s mouth and came out Satan’s shitter the most ridiculous flame spitter since Leviticus’ main figures. Mainstay on the mountain top I’ve chosen as my stompin’ grounds and ain’t no way in Moses’ name I’m walkin’ down. I keep a sour disposition ‘cause, after all, what’s a pawn to a bishop? A husk to a politician? Nah, fuck that! I’m not suggestin’, just insistin’. I’ll be the first to shut my shit when others learn to listen. Keep my toes crossed that my torso can stay put and spit those Patmos raps slow; get your brain cooked. Go on and hold counsel with those worldly wise men, I’ll be puffin’ moon rocks illuminatin’ thoughts of blind men. I spoke with Lazarus, he said the second time’s alright, so we toasted to the average and the Louisville skyline. I call the place the Dead City - so, in a certain sense, you could say I’m bringing the dead with me. I’ll take a vodka tonic, hombre, make it easy on the tonic ‘cause if this record doesn’t do well, I’ma need my bread for chronic. Reality’s a bitch and these fuckers love to flaunt it. Prof, Touch, and Filthy Rich invest in what’s beyond it.

I trace the mortal edge like my dude Greg Graffin ‘cause when he spoke on fiction and truth, I guess my brain grabbed it. I survived a bad religion and a million bad habits – a patchwork golem woven to his black fabrics. Consider launchin’ them pods, boy, before the core explodes. Sweatin’ bourbon out of every single pore but more composed. Who the fuck’s keepin’ score? I mosey more important zones. Couple more of those and I’ll be donkey punchin’ horoscopes. Snipin’ ripened constellations out the bitter gold sky. They call him “Touch Gravity” and now you know why. Ain’t a shine that can’t be dulled when seen through certain eyes; Poseidon snortin’ sea scum, lurkin perverted tides. Pantheon Slayer, retired from action – now I sit alone, godless, on a cosmic infraction. Lock his ass up and toss the key inside a black hole but never scrath the legacy: Touch was an asshole. On the day that God decides the jokes over stand aside and watch this. In Jesus’ name I hope the guillotine drops quick – over the top with colossal dropkicks. Snappin’ rapper clavicles like fuckin’ chopsticks. I make it so like Jean-Luc say so, bitch, on screen! No queso, pesos, or belongings. Spent a night or two inside the brig and feelin’ peachy. Banishin’ televangelists weekly found on T.V.

CJ PROF