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Under Dog In Paris

Does thy fight amongst thyselves, or defending the next of kin.
Others face those challenges — family sometimes take one to the chin.
A tale set forth — in a blistering lesson.
But when low points seem weary — a fan recognizes, and beckons him.

Throw him a salute. Nod your head, all right.
Nod your head twice, two recognitions for each dispelled hate strike.
This moves everything that runs.
A path less traveled, so everybody can't come.

Forsaken by the perfect batch of apples —
But how sweet is a perfect ripe plum.
Survivor's remorse, yet a burden of proof shows life to the fullest.
The spiritual shield of repetitive hustle relentless,
He yells to the audience: "Thou canst not kill God with bullets!"

The confused think it's red tape, gangsta music.
Some say too old, others too green. It's a versatile clientele.
They say "I'm Gucci with a Fear of God, I shall reign Supreme."

Thou find'st who thou art, then pick up pieces like broken bottles.
Set up a bright stage for an imperfect model.
A by-any-means mentality leads to a harsh reality.
Kicking down doors, spilled glasses leaked on floors
with sincerely thine presence —
A little bit of new talent to re-interpret the ground of the essence.

— thanks for reminding us of authentic art · sincerely, the fans.