(spoken)
Sage Francis...Personal Journalist, 1968 to 2001

(Verse 1)
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating
Cause they're still debating over what rhyme skill is
Sick of waiting for time killers to get over their murder raps
And then he sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure
Seek for 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 its safety seals faith, 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
From, when he comes back from hell again
He'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton

(over scratching)
Sage Francis...anti-socialite...secret admirer
Student loaner...continental drifter...professional bootlegger
Spin doctor...self-referentialist...personal journalist

(bridge)
Word is the worthless wordsmiths
Were 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

(spoken)
Sage Francis...death merchant...1968 to 2001
Devoted son, father to none

(Verse 2)
Husband to something soulless
And 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 til 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 but fell for every trick in the book
So he stopped believing, in the 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
(over scratching)
Sage Francis
Non-profit
Artificially intelligent
Avant Garde-ian angel dustmite
1968 to 2001... it's been a pleasure, it's been a pleasure

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...