yes, he's back - it's the asthmatic hash addict
one who fell in love wit rap and had to take a stab at it
like oj, smooth as the ojays
"moon's got the mood of the old days" is what the folks say
something like coltrane, but drunk off the propane
my mixtape? nothing but (four/fore)play
like four square when we were four man
spitting it so clear
with syntax compared to voltaire's, yeah
i spit 16 bars like shakespearean sonnets
that blend better with the beat than tangeray wit the tonic
its just the insane way i get on it
but if i hear one more rap about crack or cane i'm gon' vomit
him insane - something in his brain is demonic
how else are you explaining his logic
catch me with the spray paint, train bombing
like MI-5 did in july without blaming islamics

tony moon's the jean toomer of rap
the one man new negro movement is back
spittin written revolutions on tracks
sodium pentathol in his pen is how he keeps nothing but the truth in his raps
i see my people straying fast, and
change to maniacs as a ways to rake the cash in
the government's enslaved the masses
to the point where we take from our brothers' plate to break our fastin
shiny objects is where our brains are fastened
the media portrays me as an ape and savage
an ex-slave saw shackles and faints to blackness
now thats what the fuck i call a chain reaction
all of this is sad to say though
but i can't let this passion lay low
so i'm going against the masses' say so
like an african galileo

to end the track, i blow a cloud in the wind
burn the dutch like a holocaust survivor out for revenge
the combination of my mouth with this pen
will have a fountain of crim-
son blood spouting out of your skin
i've been moving crowds, like the towers did, since
i had ta become a house slave to poison the master
any challenger tryin to spit wit the moon
ends up like the Challenger trying to get to the moon, boom
i come through with two glocks aimed like boondock saints
i suggest you start praying if you not saved
shallow? then the gallows is where you might hang
cause rap's got crackers thinking all we do's cop cane
admit it kid, who's as sick as moon?
you miserable with these niggas who
whore scores, ignoring the true lyrical
so i'm slippin messages in lyrics like spirituals
evidence of ellison's description of invisible