Silk feat. Xeromessiah
Lessons
Comatose Records
Invision
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[Verse 1 – Silk]
He was in the back alley of a bar. The man of the house,
But a battle wasn’t far, and he wasn’t facin’ no mouse
Angry catcalls, Slutty brat dolls,
He was in it for the winnin’,
But no one was grinnin’
Naw not here, not now, there was only frontin’ and dumpin’
Money in a pot, gold coins from a Gott,
Everyone was bettin’, lettin’ the fighters give it their best shot.

A Heavyblade, standing six foot four,
Wielding a massive sword and iron to the core,
That was his opponent tonight,
He was the one that received the slight,
That was the man he scorned.

He was a Fist Fighter,
No one could crip lighter,
His fire was brighter, his grip tighter, and he took anyone’s challenge.

Revenge, that’s what was goin’ on, brawn and brains facing off,
Crazy sauce, ready to kill each other in a fearsome duel of wits,
For glitz, fame, and one girl’s soft tits.
Silk dissed his girlfriend, and now he was ready to gore him,
For even thinking about trying to match up to his hits.

The Heavyblade wore a baseball cap, strapped with a massive-ass sword,
Oh lord if something went down, something untoward, Silk was gonna stop the game, stop it for the whole world,
He’d give them a chance to see the ruler,
Say “fooled ya!” and unplug their power cord.

This busta didn’t stand a chance, his glance was like water,
He didn’t know how to dance, Silk didn’t even know how he caught her

Oh yeah, this girl, this girl who made a man’s guts want to hurl,
She was like diamonds and pearls, like leaves and whirl
Winds, prickling your skin like pins with a shot of gin
Ballin’ to the thunder of a speedin’ car, but oh hell she’s better than this bar,
As she sunders the hearts of men with legs bendin’ with all the grace of a trillion stars.

Hair like molten lava, red and fiery
Just like the flames on the Heavyblade’s back, as he tiredly
Stumbled to his feet after a Mortal Scorcher took his soul,
Torched his ass like coal, and left him with the fiercest of tolls.
Naw Silk wasn’t leavin’ no slack,
He took the man’s heart and put it up to be sold.

“Hey, he’s dead,” shouted a man in the crowd.
But Silk wasn’t done yet, not while the night was still loud,
So he bent into a crouch, let his eye slide over the girl,
And suddenly laughed, and let everything unfurl:

“I’m trapped,” he giggled,
“There’s no hope for this cripple.
Now take off that shirt, and show me a nipple.”

Just like any self-respecting woman, the girl got pissed.
She’d just been dissed, so she was no longer a fan,
Of Silk’s attitude, his style, his glide,
No, no, no, she wasn’t on his side,
Not anymore, not like before, and now Silk was in store,
For a surprise, not an amazing bride, no,
A punch in the face, without preamble or pre-face,
A horrifying set of sequences, that left lying in the cement.
Oh what had he done to get bent
Over like a bitch? A dog squirming for his itch,
And as he lay on the ground, his body all spent,
He knew that in a World of millions, only the strongest survive,
So if he expected to spill blood, he had to be the strongest alive.

[Verse 2 – Xeromessiah]

Where did he come from, where did he go?
Nobody knows.
A program who didn’t fit in his role.
The master, no, the original hustler,
Losing to a clown not even tougher.
Zavier. A fool, stuck up his butt.
Without the power to support it, or a mouth that shut up.

Xero cruised around, looking for something.
Looking for nothing.
Wondering how this world ever seemed daunting.
Wanting to hunt,
Denied for months,
His existence a front.
Forgotten by all but runts.

His ride, a Chevy™, for all that it mattered.
The laughing stock of all rides new and tattered.
Made him someone with nothing to lose,
Something to prove,
Everything to move.
God himself must behoove.
But he knew, inside, he’d never be out,
Could never ride on Zavier’s clout.
But his own, a man made after his own image,
A prime specimen, never becoming a visage
Of his former self…

Stop, the car moved into park
Without Xero realizing he had hit the mark
A group of people, money, a girl on the table
Sounded like a place he could realize this fable.
A heavy blade, dead, probably from his own weight,
And a fist fighter, a child, this night? Out too late.

But amused, he sat, and watched it unfold,
Knowing that, later on, all could be told.
But he, a prisoner, inside this abyss
Would never again know the sun’s bliss.
So he waited,
Waited,
To see what awaited
This fist fighter, reckless, this girl, unabated,
Seemed fated, to create it, this scene likely painted.

A waiter walked up, from some bar
Probably far, but not too far
He didn’t have a car.
“Can I get you something? Or are you waiting?”
Xero hated the talking, the baiting, he spoke, no hesitating.
“A bottle of wine, smoke on the side, view of this ride, listen carefully, no request denied.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared,
Somewhere in the rear.
It didn’t matter. Xero had his vision clear
Of this fighter, now slapped, and out of his element,
Trying to get a girl for only his pleasurement
But outside his temperament.

Should Xero step up?
Should Xero man up?
What if he messed up?
The questions wouldn’t let up.
So he stopped, and watched.
Not wanting this situation botched.
One fighter, one girl, one man knocked out this world.
Would the fighter succeed?
Or still be green, unknown to the woman’s need to feed?