TheReinstated:
The game's despicable,
Predictable and fickle people
Working hard for money but their hearts aren't really with it though.

Spitting cold rhymes for the fun of it,
Rapping cuz it's summer, kid,
The others rap for money, that's not funny, cuz I'm wondering.

Why are they getting big while other kids who do it for the real, make the music but don't ever get a deal?

How's it feel? If you work hard, spitting when the world starts spinning every written bar shooting for a little star.

Skidding far, the kidding spittle starts to fall, but the way you try to say what's in your brain isn't right at all.

A little bit more, a fiddle in store, when riddling witty things. While Spitting kings never worry about withering.

Unless they have a bit to sing, when they get a swan song, and then they're gone with a sip of drink.

Some are drinking and smoking, I'm simply thinking and growing and a little spitting and flowing, but mostly chilling and hoping.

I wanna make music, I know I wanna do it, but corruption and greed still keep me out on my feet. And on my tippy toes. Waiting for the world in my palm to overflow in the bitter cold with a dripping nose, that's how the digging goes.

Construction in life, but when I write I find an escape,
conducting with might.
Obstructing what's wrong and then deducting whats right.
Im just Abducting the night, I'm lucky, instructing my flight.


I don't know what I'ma do now.
I don't know who I'ma be now.
I don't see the way to be me and be you and be this and be real and be true. How.

My name's theReinstated and I don't know what my fate is.
I don't know when my date of expiration will be waiting.
Coming to go to go to school to see the things to do.
Truancy fluent and flying through truth and assuming the planes had flew.

The boeings I know had flown and going to places I've never known.
Showing an anthem of cheetahs and panthers, these cats are no amateur flows.

Bouncing through the beat the best I can the best I will.
Pouncing through the heat, the test is old and tests my will.
I don't know how to do the things I love to do again.
I don't know how to love the people I love to know again.

My friends and my relatives are relatively perfect
I pursue a nice dream as I wonder if it's worth it.
What's the verdict? I don't know the jury's out, but I walk around a graveyard just to bury any doubt.

A hurry, now I'm out and I'm wandering about with my eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk, how I talk.
I see the way to farthest seas and open up my peepers
just to open up a dream and see my dreidel as it teeters
on the seams of reality where nothing's as it seems
and the truth of this here life, is we're all actors on a theater screen.