Sellout

Yeah, you're a fucking sell out
Don't worry, just ring up and cash out
But this ain't no rap
I don't got time to rhyme through this shit
I'm too busy clipping bars
Look at my eyes, they'll twinkle
That way you know I'm blind
I guess you can't blame me if I don't know where I was going
But you hear the warnings all the time
limelight, the root, illuminati, everyone is doing the twist
Still I guess it's absolved if "that's just how I feel"
light pockets make it easy to run
and when they're weighed down we buy safes
I have four and they keep me busy just fine
Still, I've got to keep dancing, ballroom of course
one two, repeat, I'll stay on that beat
and profanity is a must, nah fuck that
I'll be vicious and shock, call it contrarian
then convince mountain dew to pick me up
still even now as I delude myself into believing that I am a mockingbird
I realize that I am complicit. I follow the strictures and instead decided to talk white
And instead of staying on beat, I'll call it meter. And instead of rhyme, I'll call it a sonnet
And I'll talk about philosophical hogwash. And the person I show it too will give me an obligatory nod
At least I ain't wearing chains. And I don't decorate my poems with a Spanish I don't speak.
But perhaps I should. Because no one is reading this shit. I hardly read this shit
The one person who does read it, right now, is probably scratching their head,
wondering who to believe? Grills or Stroud?