The Neverending Story - Jay Electronica

Have you ever heard the tale of

The noblest of gentlemen who rose up from squalor?

Tall, dark, and decked out in customary regalia

Smellin' like paraphernalia

Hailin' from the home of Mahalia

His uptown smile was gold like a Frankie Beverly day

His favorite song from Prince was not «Raspberry Beret»

It was «Sometimes It Snows In April»

He was brought up by the faithful

In the cage of every unclean bird, ungrateful and hateful

The legend of the clandestine reverend from the Bricks

With the master’s grip to pull the sleeping giant out the ditch

And I ain’t even have to wiggle my nose like Bewitched

I just up-shift to six, convert the V4 to a broomstick

Though I tarry through the valley of death, my Lord give me pasture

If you want to be a master in life, you must submit to a master

I was born to lock horns with the Devil at the brink of the hereafter

Me, the socket, the plug, and universal adapter

The prodigal son who went from his own vomit

To the top of the mountain with five pillars and a sonnet

The autobiography read Quranic

Spread love like Kermit the Frog, that permeate the fog

I’m at war like the Dukes of Hazzard against the Bosses of the Hogs

Gip-Gip-Giggity,

Alchemist put the icing on the soliloquy

Let it be forever known that I niced up to pen something considerably

Jay Electollah Flomeini mainly is support mainly

The fatwa he issued on al-Shayṭān was delivered plainly

It’s the day of Qiyāmah

To the believers, I bring you tidings of joy

But if you want beef, I’ll filet mignon ya

You could catch me bummy as fuck or decked out in designer

On I-10 West to the desert, on a Diavel like a recliner

Listen to everything from a lecture

From the Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan

To Serge Gainsbourg or Madonna or a podcast on piranhas

What a time we livin' in, just like the scripture says

Earthquakes, fires, and plagues, the resurrection of the dead

I’m a miracle born with imperial features

I’m a page turner, sage burner, Santeria

Chongón, December baby, my Orishas

Saint Hov, story takes place in ancient Egypt

They’ll cut off the nose to spite their face, they’ll steal ya Jesus

I can’t tell Hattie White that blue-eyed version is make believe stuff

She throw me out the house, say, «Ye deliver us from this heathen»

I say that to Ms. Tina, she’ll sneeze at sun, her photic reflex

They both had straightening combs, little did they know

I hold the heat next

Neither tool can be used to fix our defects

P. S. we born perfect, fuck all the B. S

Everybody wanna be us for real, we just gotta see us

Insha’Allah

I tried to turn a page

, over a zillion times