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Personal Journalist

from Personal Journals by Sage Francis

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lyrics

“Sage Francis. Personal Journalist. 1968 to 2001.”
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating They're still debating over what rhyme skill is
Sick of waiting for time killers to get over there murder raps
Then he sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure Sought 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 it safety-seals fate, 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
When he comes back from hell again
He'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton
“Sage Francis. Anti-socialite. Secret admirer
Student loner. Continental drifter. Professional bootlegger Spin doctor. Self-referentialist. Personal journalist”
Word is the worthless wordsmiths we're conversing with impersonal twists Heard they’re concerned with making the Earth shift.
These kid games are silly...
When all art is signed anonymous
He'll turn that big bang theory into a small pop hypothesis
“Sage Francis. Death merchant. 1968 to 2001 Devoted son, father to none
Husband to something soulless”
He didn't spend his life with who he loved
The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove
His time is up. He's still the type poised to make a comeback
Kill the white noise until the sun's black
Moonwalk around New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep Who square-dance circles inside a box of beats
The California dream sequences end quick
Couldn’t find middle ground in little towns on some midwest trip
He stood for something. Fell for every trick in the book
So he stopped believing in an Avant-Garden of Eden
Get off the cross! Of course we need the wood to burn a godless heathen Catch him red handed only if his palms are bleeding

“Sage Francis. Non-prophet. Artificially intelligent Avant Guardian angel dust mite. 1968 to 2001. It's been a pleasure. It's been a pleasure.”
But get out my weathered face with all that sunshine Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine Get out my weathered face

credits

from Personal Journals, released April 16, 2002
Beat by DJ Mayonnaise.
Scratches by DJ Mekalek.

license

all rights reserved

tags

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