Striking again.

Benjammin' Funkyfresh had just woken up from his glorious nap off his hammock that overlooked the gold-plated pool that stood beside his mansion. Despite all of the available necessities (you know, foot massagers, margaritas), he felt burdened. Burdened from life's many problems and pitfalls and real problems that normal and more credible rappers don't go through. And at that moment Funkyfresh decided that 'dat pain IS real, yo.' Also in that moment, he made a phone call to fire his songwriter, whom he was paying five hundred dollars an hour to spit out the next hit. 'Heavy, man, real heavy.' He had decided that he was going to write his own songs. No more glocks. No more shawtys. Just the truth. And that my friends, is the true story of this next song.


It's automatic, like reflex is emphatic
With acrobatic attack like rats in the attic
I'm not proud to say I've always had it
Like withdrawal syndrome from a recovering addict
While I'm at it, don't believe the hearsay
The fact of the matter is it only looks this way
It just feels so f***ing useless even when I try to communicate with music
Abuse it like no right to make nuclear fusion or confusion
Don't believe illusion, because it's the image of vanity when I try to use profanity
Screaming at the world and trying to keep my sanity
Dodging like Hannity and everything that you try and call me
But loathe me? Ever knowing the scolders scold me holding
A royal flush to the consecutive folding, but boldly I'm going
All in to defend the measure of a better hand again with the cards
Now you made it hard to salvage the far gone shards of parts and rejects
But the least of it is I can only pick up the pieces

'It's like a whole mofo'ing epiphany, dawg!'

-Benjammin' Funkyfresh