Fearless Jones


While you’re reaching for your water pistol, posing in your bathroom
I melt the sands of time to build a better glass tomb
Your fresh style, man…It’s past due
Matter of fact, you’re trash dude

I’ve got Fearless Jones and Paris keeping me company
Starting off with femme fatale bait, add a bumping beat
Started way down south and moved to the metropolis
Had a bookstore that got burned down, so ominous
Back when a buck was a ridiculous tip
And AIDS were for deaf ears, is it trip?
syphilis sick was about as bad as it got
No videocam for a black man mad at the cops
For the constant beat downs with a pattern of loss
Paris too smart for his own good, add in a knot
Fearless heeding a conscience that nobody else hears
Ready with a can of whoop ass, he never felt fear
Spent time overseas killing assasssins
Now he gets ladies, militant, filling with passion
Way before rap, 45s got the song spun
And that lady went and snatched up the wrong gun
2 Friends another wild goose chase with much death
Bound to find a redefinition of success
Keep pushing forward, and following leads
Word is rotary phone bond, solemn indeed

While you’re reaching for your water pistol, posing in your bathroom
I melt the sands of time to build a better glass tomb
Your fresh style, man…It’s past due
Matter of fact, you’re trash dude

When the edge isn’t sharp enough, what do you do?
Rehash the past with some irony, and cut it in two
Nobody paid attention back then, they’ll hail it as original
A brand new leftover remix of ritual
Digital the brave new world of rip and shares
If it’s not now, it’s not me, a bit of didn’t care
happily oblivious, depravity is insidious
Only thing easier than downloading a track is getting rid of it
Click and drag to the trash, clear space on the hard drive
Making room for whatever’s next to be marked mine
I downloaded it, gave it 20 seconds of my precious time
As for the artist, man I bet he’s fine

While you’re reaching for your water pistol, posing in your bathroom
I melt the sands of time to build a better glass tomb
Your fresh style, man…It’s past due
Matter of fact, you’re trash dude

It’s like mixtapes in this day are a mishmash of which way
Will be disposable and inlayed with an ixnay
In the meantime, the tracks shuffle along
And the world keeps turning to the sound of a song, then it’s gone

While you’re reaching for your water pistol, posing in your bathroom
I melt the sands of time to build a better glass tomb
Your fresh style, man…It’s past due
Matter of fact, you’re trash dude

I write rimes on sheets of the scrunched up paper
Found inside a new pair of shoes for flavor
Every purchase then becomes tax deductible
The pedigree wordsmith with raps combustible
React to the track, interact and adapt
Steer clear of the fear and adhere to the pact
That I made with the pen when I started to write