Art. What is it? Asking quizzically
What’s this? bottle in front of me
Grinding feeling rougher than the norm
Throw a tape of the quiet storm
Flash dreams’bout the last birth of a nation
In genes beneath the last stop at station
culture, buried at subway here
No wonder some people are called the devil
But God favors those with the biggest cannon
And even killers of the culture need [bad word] Spare nothing’bout quarter nor sugar for dime
Woe to the conquered in the face of the crime
Better chillin’ on a ledge catchin’ tropical breeze
Than in jail coppin’ ually transmitted diseases
And lost like craft of many or most
In a mediocre world no need to boast

Green Blue switch lights
Blackness cut by blinding white headlights
Silence and peace of art treasures hidden away
Between stations Stillness framed by cold metal angles
Ghost stop sculptures of Strobe light animation
When trains pass by

Exuberant zig zag of [bad word] alive in this modern city
Like ancient cave paintings transformed to this day
Buried alive, left to decay
Like a gem in the mud never ceasing to shine

Surrounded by people this moment is mine
Ancient hieroglyphics of our day
Burst alive in a surprising display of
Sparks flying through strange incantation
Girders choke light causing strobe light claymation
On the Writing on the wall in this lonely shrine
Train passes by but this moment can’t be denied
Brooding energy ready to explode at any time
Brightens up my day riding the subway
Same as my craft tries to awaken the hidden and lost
Graffiti cemetery locked away in your heart and mind