Now let me swallow all my pride and digest the funk.
I got’a few stressed words but the rest is love
for my people’s brown skin kissed with the sun
rockin’ English as a second tongue. Let’s get it done:
I’m only showin’ up to finals, yes I drunk dial,
girl, I got 21 speeds on my cycle.
You could hop on, but baby don’t pop the tires,
they’re my mama’s wheels. Oh no, I can’t deny it
like evidence in trials and drunken freestyles,
I only represent the truth and nothin’ else,
cos working class is how I work this craft
and try to keep my product poppin’ like percoset.
When I say “eat the rich”, they go thinkin I’m crazy like Marlowe,
assumin’ that I’m too far gone.
So when we get a grammy nomination I’ma roll my car slow
down a red carpet with Carlos wit’
-
Chorus
Two-tone paint, sittin’ on twelves,
stolen tape deck and a cracked winshield.
Rollin’ down down Franklin, clutch 2nd gear
Nowhere else but here
-
I sip shots from a shot glass that says “Puerto Rico”,
stay black like my name stays Martinican,
employee of the month, and the geek of the week,
still keepin’ it badass like Steve McQueen.
I got enough energy to jumpstart five cars
and dodge emcees takin’ more shots than dive-bars.
My time is too fast to be contained by days,
so I’m measuring it page for page.
Got no face to save or any flames to aim,
not much pride to rhyme when you’re plain ol’ strange,
The type’a kid to space out starin’ at walls in class
and always roam around the school without a cause or hall-pass.
I’m aimless, an unsure thing shootin’ to make it,
accurate as an unsafe bet racing the day-shift,
settled for low maintenance, pacin’ the pavement
on an everyday quest and I’m keepin’ it basic
-
Chorus
Two-tone paint, sittin’ on twelves,
stolen tape deck and a cracked winshield.
Rollin’ down down Lake Street, clutch 2nd gear
Nowhere else but here
-
I push a short bus with a trailer on the back,
sippin’ orange juice mixed with aristocrat.
Dignity split with grace and good tact,
but I keep rollin’ on with a tire drainin’ flat.
Breathin’ with a paper bag, not to lose my head,
cos my sister’s still askin’ me, “Who’s The Blend?”
It’s either food and rent, or booze and gin,
and that decision pends on how the afternoon gets spent:

Writing for five hours ‘til my mind’s soured
digested with the rest of what the time’s devoured.
Brain blocked same spot, tryin’ to write it out,
savin’ up, savin’ up, just enough to buy a vowel.
If you’re comin’ up short, don’t know what your climbin’ for,
I got my tattooed on the neck of the hi-score.
Find the doors, keep ya dimes and quarters.
I ain’t walkin’ outta here without my woman and the triforce.

The Blend: a band’a honest cooks
and working class heroes that never got a comic book.
It’s the bike locksmith, style unadopted,
Improvin’, late-night photoshoppin’,
propless, nationally renowned and jobless,
fresh off the wok, hot enough burn a dish,
the black Irish, with a German twist
AKA racially ambiguous.

Standin’ between just enough and not quite,
with my back as a fulcrum to measure what’s right.
I’ll bridge the gap when I swim across,
put it on my shoulders and carry it until it walks,
against odds, results and means,
an country makin’ profit off’a insultin’ queens.
Lost the dream and control
of a city buildin’ walls and condos in the congo.
Your privilege, our problem.
If you don’t wanna hear it, you can put it on-hold.
They don’t wanna see Amina the scholar,
they don’t wanna see me and Armando in a Silverado.

Remote and console, I’ll settle for my bike
Can’t let my wants get in the way of likes.
God is a woman and her name is necessity.
Most times I call her mom, cos she’s all I need.
To represent as a overtime employee
of the B-L-E-N-D.
That might be nothin’ to you, but it’s somethin’ to me,
and I push it with the utmost of L-O-V-E.
-
Chorus
Two-tone paint, sittin’ on twelves,
stolen tape deck and a cracked winshield.
Rollin’ down down 38th, clutch 2nd gear
Nowhere else but here