Myke T: On and on and the beat done stopped, but I’m…

Magenta: So cold… So cold… It’s so cold… It was so cold… So cold

Myke T: This Brotha Joe done came with a hard beat/ it’s so complex…

Jolowmight(x) Cervantes: Why can’t I speak no more?/ Why won’t the ideas just flow and pour/ the way they used to/ I used to know or at least pretend/ but with every victory comes a new contender/ a never-ender/ and if you ain’t got the stomach/ the never-ending cycle will sho nuff make you nauseous/ cautious/ lossless in this compression/ while I spend most of my time battling depression/ can’t even start the song off right/ damn, it’s so simple/ when you see things in black and white/ but the visible light spectrum will best all attempts of misdirection/ direct your gaze to “exhibit a”/ reality/ that’s right/ seem so normal to wanna look away/ exhibit A, is Khujo Goodie/ in “Mainstream”/ chronicling how folk will die for the American dream/ and it seems meaningless/ when good is repaid with steel/ steal, beat, and kill x2/ make a brother holler “look at the hand you deal”/ look at it x2/ it’s tragic/ y’all can’t make me/ I’d rather wear my Ché Guevara revolutionary t-shirt/ and yell “power to the people”/ when the people hold power/ it’s just lunch hour/ and we on extended breaks/ and it’s damn sho’ easy for power to go sour/ makes me wonder if the quest for power is a primordial blunder/ rip us asunder/ then ponder it/ peddle it/ flip it/ and lift it/ now max it to its ultimate position/ some call it “God”/ some call it “overfishing”/ some call it “nothing”/ an ecological disaster emanating in the Gulf/ then come ashore and expose another gulf/ in economics and demographics/ builds the recipe for this tragic upside-down cake/ earthquakes in El Salvador add to the batter/ y’all understand by now that hooks don’t matter to Cervantes/ and don’t be acting like that I am a “glass half-empty”/ especially when that glass is filled with a fifth of Hennessey/ that kind of liquor that make you forget about the life you living/ them folks that’s trippin’/ them kids that’s dying/ them tears you crying/ even a full glass couldn’t swallow that up/ so fill it up again/ this time with some gin/ and you begin to understand the meaning of cooptation/ when the very act of you coping/ provides the system’s legitimation… Damn… and it goes on, on, on, on, and on…

Shaneé: It’s so cold x16

Jolowmight: (And we don’t wanna think about it/ and we don’t wanna feel around it/ and we never do nothing ‘bout it… it’s so cold… x2/ and you know we need to feel around it/ and I know I gotta think about it/ and we gotta do something ‘bout it/ yeah, it’s so cold… x2)

Shaneé: It’s so cold/ it’s complex/ it oscillates/ make no mistake/ we’ve grown cold/ Lord have mercy, we’ve grown cold…

Jolowmight & Shaneé: The time to tell the truth is so long gone… The coldness of this thing makes it too frigid to touch, to hold, to embrace, to live, to cherish, to fight, to love… It goes on and on…

Shaneé: Lift your head up, lift your head up/ And go on, and go on/ Look around you, look around you/ And go on, and go on/ Lift your head look around/ Lift your head look around/ You can’t stop/ You won’t stop/ Now don’t stop/ And go on… and on… and on…