I turn over the yellowish pages The parchment falls apart among my fingers The mysterious prophesy I begin to read Shall I comprehend the message Someone
White chocolate kisses under the stars Riding on horses Boys with guitars If you really want to get the root of me You don't have to try so hard Give
green to green, dark green, brown.. Every life is falling down Brown to black, it's coming back Dies to be part of the ground Seed to seedling, root
Nick is an ignorant ball head Now chant down Babylon midterm essays Then puff from de chalice I fi make from a Sprite can Last week I read a book about
to flirt/ I'm from the dirt, root and soot/ Came up on my own foot/ Used to hang with the crooks, I keep a job on my books/ I took my chance with many
that I played to And became a slave to master self A rich man is one with knowledge, happiness and his health My mind had dealt with the books of Zen
I met you through a common friend In the attic of my parents' house And though I didn't know it then I soon was finding out You are the roots that sleep
I met you through a common friend in the attic of my parents house and though I didn't know it then I soon was finding out you are the roots that sleep
clouds boy look, these n-ggas quote my lines like the Lord?s book you n-ggas less rhymes more hooks more bucks but less love you hear them drums, ?uestlove no Roots
be so wise? To see through eyes that only see what's real Tell me, grey seal Your mission bells were wrought by ancient men The roots were formed by twisted roots Your roots
my definition is a lyricist for hire My vocal's a passport that never expire The crowd loud like fifty rounds of gun fire Screamin' out "The Roots" while
you can't stop this from the West Indies You can tell I'm a lyrical prophet from the words spoken and broken up In these books and scrolls that I unfold
down when the rage come to you 'Fore a grave or a cage or a gauge come to you But you don't give a fuck So just open up your book and let your page come
put a 'K if they ain't down with us It's off the hook, nigga, I'm a Westside crook, nigga The forty motherfuckin' dollars on my books, nigga I'm not
mouthpiece I can sell it, I can sell it Holla at me in the streets I can sell it I can sell a flat tire to a bike A left to a right, a root beet to
tie u up like the devilish desk man then i eat u up like a delicate dessan damn u fly change us in and u do it like its ur proffession hit the story book
babe in the arms of a woman in a rage And a longtime golden-haired stripper on stage And she winds back the clock and she turns back the page Of a book
were so well rooted, That the next day he saluted A good humor man, an usher, and a nun. Now fred's an intellectual, brings a book to every meal. He