(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