Soothsayer
Written 2017
Song by: Buckethead
VERSE 1
Speak my mind with a flawless rhyme, Subs can explode with leisure
But like a talking mime, I’m hard to find, better brush up on Minesweeper...
Deep-sleeper when it comes to whackness, hit the tree in the Sun like cactus...
And in my mirage, there’s a Mihal of Taj, Prince Subs collects them taxes
And a fax is how you reach me, old-school like a dusty degree
Keep it framed like Brendan Dassy, yeah
Other side might be more grassy, but I’ve passed more sticks than a track meet
And I write my rhymes with a pen, to just spit from what comes from within...
And just keep that flow, stay key-low, remain poised and humble.
Got plenty of that hard-work in me, it’ll open doors like Dumble (Dumbledoor)
And hearts don’t break they crumble, so if you happen to fall & stumble,
into love with the One above, just remember with whom you grumbled... and cursed, and dissed, and fought.
Never gave it much of a thought, that your prayers were heard.
The flyest bird is on this beat so sink your teeth into this treat like candy
With a magic stick I’ll “poof” this chick then liquor (lick her up) up like brandy
VERSE 2
I’m sitting with the Cherokee, don’t know which spirit entered me
Floating like a life raft, below me lays my mystery.
Yeah, without a clue but something brews...
Like the animal that realized that he was stuck in a zoo
So I’m breakin down these endless walls, just blast away like cannon balls
Yeah, Subs the Snake, fangs and all, he’ll flow the rhymes up waterfalls
And I know that life can tend to stall, but keep workin towards that curtain call
‘Cause like a chaser mixed with alcohol, all you need is some balance.
And maybe some loose allowance. To get you through the tough days
Yeah you’ll get by... I challenge, any man with a mic in hand
My vocal storm you can’t withstand, but this aint nothin, have you heard ‘Lapland’?
Just take a listen, you’ll be a fan...
‘Cause I spit that unique shit. These women like chicken they strip.
On a radar I’m just a blip, but I grab that mic with a grip so tight
That my hands get white, to Trump’s delight, man fuck that bigot with a dynamite
I get the party all types of hype, shots of Bacardi with a mix a Sprite and I’m gone.
Feel those vibes in my protons. Conclusion seems to be foregone...
Flow like water, Megaladon’s what I’m riding so I drop jaws (Jaws) then I get applause...
Secured the bag from the Santa Claus, rapped (wrapped) more joints than athlete gauze
Song on loop, holes (loopholes) exposed like flaws in laws
Stay more baked than ovens left on
but cookie-cutter ain’t my style, yawn...
After this life, where would you like to spawn?
Because I keep that guidance on, I’ll fall flat, when the Sun is gone
But until then I’ll hold this pen, and Buckethead... just cause mayhem!
