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Portraits

by Chris Orrick

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Jason Quentin Teeter
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Jason Quentin Teeter Because you are the bartender's best friend.
Favorite track: Barfly (prod. Onra).
Justin Blackman
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Justin Blackman Outdid yourself. Good shit. Up there with "Look What...". My man is Bob Ross with a mic. Painting vivid pictures. Dont sleep. Favorite track: Anywhere Instead (prod. L'Orange).
kth333
kth333 thumbnail
kth333 Awesome, new jams from Chris. If this early-released track is any indication of what’s to come we are in for a wallop of an album. Thank you very much brother. Take care and all the best, peace! Favorite track: Mom (prod. Nolan The Ninja).
Valve
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Valve This makes me so fucking excited for the next Ugly Heroes album. Both Verbal and Chris can hold their own, but this comes close to being as good as an Ugly Heroes album on its own. Pure fire from Chris Orrick. Favorite track: Lazy Buddies (prod. Apollo Brown).
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about

No one confronts the abyss better than Chris Orrick. The Michigan ex-factory worker formerly known as Red Pill has spent the last half-decade documenting industrial decay, familial pain, and struggles with addiction better than almost anyone inhabiting this poisoned soil. It’s somewhere between Charles Bukowski and Michael Moore, or maybe Atmosphere if he couldn’t ignore the arsenic in the air.

As Orrick tells it, “Portraits,” his latest album for Mello Music Group is a return to form.

“I tried to strip everything down to what I think I'm best at: simple, concise portraits of who I am,” Orrick says. “Whether that be finding myself through self-portraits, portraits of everyday workers, portraits of the current political moment or portraits of myself told through the eyes of people I encounter daily.”

From the corroded arteries of the blue-collar heartland, Orrick emerges as one of the most incisive and savage critics of Trump’s America. If the American dream is dead, he unflinchingly lays the blame on avaricious corporations, crude demagogues, and structural racism. There’s nothing polemical about it: just warm-hearted, sad-eyed, gin-flooded depictions of a life where there are few right answers but a litany of wrong ones.

The Michigan native is an acerbic poet, but too unpretentious and sarcastic to ever call himself that. In his love letter to his long-time girlfriend (“Lazy Buddies”), Orrick fantasizes about the pair decamping to a town an hour outside of Paris, where they can blissfully split a bottle of cheap wine. Then he mocks himself for being a little corny. But that’s part of its charm—through his ruthless honesty, we can see ourselves as we actually are—prone to idle delusions, indolence, and self-obsessed.

“Portraits can often be overlooked, but there are so many details in the face that tell innumerable stories about what the person portrayed might have been feeling or going through,” Orrick continues. “I'm trying to find those details, within myself and within America today."

On “Anywhere Instead,” he grouses about how most days he doesn’t want to leave his bed until noon, staring at his phone, wishing for imminent death. It’s a nothing matters, gallows humor that anoints him a laureate of existential dread. He captures the terror of the void, the ambiguity of not knowing where or when your next direct deposit will hit. He’s wise enough to understand how little he understands, allergic to cheap irony or forced symbolism. As he points out on stories, “not every story has a meaning, not every moment has a reason, sometimes you just let the music play and tell you what to say.”

It’s obvious how loudly the music speaks to Orrick, who is rarely short of opinions or serrated observation. The somber piano-based melancholy and rugged drums of “Portraits” thump via a gifted arsenal of producers including Nolan the Ninja, L’Orange, Exile, Apollo Brown, and Onra. Only two guest rappers appear, Fashawn and Orrick’s partner in Ugly Heroes, Verbal Kent. Orrick carries the rest of the weight and you sense the Atlas burden he shoulders.

But for the all the poignant complaints, there’s a soulful profundity at the core of the album. It goes further than stress over bills, nicotine and liquor compulsions, and a search for deeper revelation. If you can hear a song like “Mom” without slightly crumbling, you might be iron-born. It’s a eulogy for Orrick’s late mother, dead at 45 without seeing her children grow up, without the opportunity to take pride in her son’s ability to realize his dream—however flawed it can occasionally seem. It’s here where you sense the power of these Portraits. They capture the pain that too many of us feel, that manifests itself in so many distinct ways. For a little while, we understand the raw f&cked up complexity of what it means to be a human being in a lunatic world. The portrait is personal, but it’s all of us too.

credits

released May 4, 2018

produced by Nolan the Ninja, Bruce Wain, L'Orange, Calvin Valentine, Apollo Brown, Samarei, Exile, Onra.
featuring Fashawn & Verbal Kent

mixed by Magnetic
mastered by Joe Hutchinson
graphic design by Linda Fung
photography by Jeremy Deputat
executive produced by Michael Tolle & Chris Orrick.

1. Self-Portrait
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Nolan The Ninja / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson


2. Stories
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Bruce Wain / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

3. Design Flaw
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by L’Orange / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

4. The Rubric
Vocals by Chris Orrick & Verbal Kent / Produced by Calvin Valentine / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

5. Lazy Buddies
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Apollo Brown / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

6. Escape Plan
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Samarei / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

7. Anywhere Instead
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by L’Orange / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

8. Bottom Feeders
Vocals by Chris Orrick & Fashawn / Produced by Exile / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

9. Barfly
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Onra / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

10. Jealous of the Sun
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Onra / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

11. Mom
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Nolan The Ninja / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

12. What Happens Next
Vocals by Chris Orrick / Produced by Nolan The Ninja / Written by Chris Orrick / Mixed by Magnetic / Mastered by Joe Hutchinson

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about

Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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Track Name: Self-Portrait (prod. Nolan The Ninja)
Still trying to paint you a portrait
It never looks right when I force it
Somehow your features get distorted
Your head's small and your eyes look enormous
You know the inside of you's gorgeous
But on the outside it gets morbid
I got a room full of your paintings
And none of them are gonna make me famous
They'll collect dust till they're ancient
Get tossed out after late rent payments
Maybe I'm not right for the era
Every picture tells the story of a risk I was scared of
And you can feel the self-consciousness
Where every pen stroke lacks confidence
Maybe I'm having trouble trying to paint you
Because I hate you


Still trying to paint you a portrait
It never looks right when I force it
Somehow your features get distorted
Your head's small and your eyes look enormous
You can't see the tree from the forest
You can't fight the war from the fortress
You can't pay the bill from the fortune
You can't paint the face from the portrait

So yeah, maybe I just hate you
Maybe everything you've ever said I can't relate to
I hate the way you look, I hate the way you dress
I hate the way your living room and kitchen is a mess
I hate the way you stress, the way you overeat
I hate the way you can't get out of bed and oversleep
I hate the way you worry, I hate the way you smile
With your big rabbit teeth you haven't brushed in awhile
I hate your curly hair, I hate the way you stare
I hate the way that you pretend you're self aware
I hate that you hate everyone, the way you condescend
I hate that you get flakey now when making plans with friends
I hate the way you spend every dollar that you earn
I hate the way you know it and you'll probably never learn
I hate that it's a fact it's probably over for this shit
Unless you get sober fucking quick


Still trying to paint you a portrait
It never looks right when I force it
Somehow your features get distorted
Your head's small and your eyes look enormous
You can't see the tree from the forest
You can't fight the war from the fortress
You can't pay the bill from the fortune
You can't paint the face from the portrait

I hate the way your brain makes you feel
It's a shame you're convinced that the pain isn't real
I hate the way you mask it with a drug
Hate your body, hate your mind, all it's asking for is love
I hate the way that you portray yourself
I hate the way that you betray yourself
I hate the way that you can't paint yourself
But most of all
I hate the way you hate yourself
Track Name: Stories (prod. Bruce Wain)
I like going shopping on a Sunday morning
Just me in the store at the crack of dawn
While everybody else is yawning up at church
And these poor motherfuckers gotta work
Some of them smile and some of them nod
Some of there barely awake on the job
And I can't blame 'em, would never shame 'em
Given the wages that these motherfuckers pay 'em
They're busy stocking from the night before
Some try to not vomit from the night before
Stayed up a little bit late, maybe a little mistake
But at the time, shit it was great
Why you ever go to sleep, when you're hanging with your people
And fuck that job anyways
All day on your feet, seven days of the week
And you're barely getting paid

Not every story has a point
Not every question is a choice
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say
Not every story has a meaning
Not every moment has a reason
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say

Sometimes you let the music play

I love the smell of diesel on a cold morning
Trucks around the back busy unloading
The vegetables are fresh, no need to inspect
But the deli isn't open yet
Tomatoes looking red, bananas looking ripe
Like what should I cook tonight?
It's fall in Michigan, just grab some veggies and some meat
Big old pot, put all that shit in it
And let it cook all day
Employee in my aisle and she looks my way
And says, "How you doing? Are you finding everything?"
I notice on her finger is a brand new wedding ring
I said, "Yep, how you doing today?"
She said, "I'm pretty great, last night I got engaged"
I gave her my congratulations
And went on my way


Not every story has a point
Not every question is a choice
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say
Not every story has a meaning
Not every moment has a reason
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say

Sometimes you let the music play
Track Name: Design Flaw (prod. L'Orange)
Just pour me a stiff drink and leave me the fuck alone
My story is missed links and riddled with undertones
Of various insults in between compliments
Scarily impulsive and overlaid common sense
Scoured the universe and scorched the entire earth
To find a L'Orange beat to bring you this tired verse
From a tired man who once was a firebrand
But once he had struck gold, he changed the entire plan
Now he walks with a flask on his path
Trying to figure out the math of his bills to his cash
Trying to make 'em match, even better leave him
With a little scratch for his cat and his stash
But in between the laughs and the gaffes
He's a lit match, without a can full of gas
And the fumes, they're never gonna last
So at last, he can light a cigarette and just relax

Design Flaw


Honestly pretty bad, I'm trying to get better at
Thinking about what they might leave on my epitaph
Or thinking about how I've been treating my better half
Or thinking about the shit I'd be doing instead of rap
I could be working at McDonald's or at the plant
Instead I'm overseas, Cali to Amsterdam
Moscow to D.C., Paris to Bellingham
But then the mind starts to think...
And you know, the mind it connects to the spine
And the spine is entwined with the nerves, but I'm fine
I'm inclined to the wine and I pine for the time
When my crime was the name on the spine
Of a book, never mind all the signs, how it looks
It's a crime, or at how the law
Has it defined and I'm trying to be fine
But I'm not, my design is a flaw

Design Flaw
Track Name: The Rubric (feat. Verbal Kent / prod. Calvin Valentine)
So what are you defined by, what is it that makes you?
Is it who your clothes are designed by?
Or is it in the way that you look at your neighbor
Reaching out for help, but a blind eye
Is easier to give and you shouldn't feel too bad
Everyone is born with their bootstraps
And fuck 'em anyways, right?
Everybody out here's got the same goddaamn daylight
But it's not that simple, the life your born is
The same one they'll box you into
While you're breaking through it they're waiting outside
To tell you they changed the rubric
And they paint the Rubik's cube
The game's rigged to make sure you lose
So when you play the game, if it's all the same
Try to play for you


And every time you play their rules
Either play dead or play the fool
Try your best trying to play it cool
Play for them then you play to lose

Verbal Kent:

Is everything I’ve worked for worth more?
Than what has fallen in my lap, what I’ve searched for’s
Found to be a curse more than a blessin’ learned more from
Wounds than the stitches, I put that on my first born
Uh....whatchu think I roam the earth for?
Dealin’ with life- that’s what the liquor and the herb for
Feel it at night, I’m kinda knockin’ with a search warrant
Tryna find a self to describe and the words for it
Huh, maybe it’s been dormant,
Waiting within torment, taking an enormous amount of patience
To relate and take in what this world is about, I guess it’s
Best to pick a side that feels full in n your heart, testify
To test your pride instead of just testing a product rest the
Gas pedal stead of perpetually
Steppin’ on it
Emphasis on effortlessness, been dishonest to myself
for too long I think it’s time I made a promise


And every time you play their rules
Either play dead or play the fool
Try your best trying to play it cool
Play for them then you play to lose
Track Name: Lazy Buddies (prod. Apollo Brown)
Met you when I was twelve
Met you long before the two of us could know ourselves
Met you long before I knew what love is and how that felt
And now I'll love you till I say farewell
It isn't writing love songs
It isn't easy being you when I know that you're sick and worried
My behavior is concerning and honestly
I don't know what the fucks wrong
I wanna move with you to Paris
Maybe an hour outside of the city center
Where we can sit together if the weathers nice enough
Grab a bottle of shitty wine and we can share it
Maybe that's too romantic
A little corny for our tiny little story
Cuz if we end up in a two bedroom one story
With our little cat, then I don't need to get pedantic


A couple lazy buddies, little house
little cat, never saving money
On the couch, sipping jack
Going crazy honey

I think I'm trying hard
Trying to focus on these words to make it pretty
Nothings perfect so forgive me
If my urge to make a strictly
Loving song about you isn't perfect by and large
Don't think we'll ever grow up
And I don't see that as a problem,
See, 'cuz we come from the bottom
So they leave us with no option
But to see the beauty when it's rotten
and if it's rotten so what?
Take it and make it our own
We see the broken pieces
And these people on this planet
They can treat you so egregious
And if we can't understand it
At least we don't gotta face it alone
I make a pledge to you
I don't promise to be anyone
A promise isn't anything
I'm honest if I'm telling you
I'll probably do many things to hurt you
Never intentional, otherwise I'm dead to you

A couple lazy buddies, little house
little cat, never saving money
On the couch, sipping jack
Going crazy honey
Track Name: Escape Plan (prod. Samarei)
I went to sleep a fifth deep one night when I was twenty-three
Woke up sober and hung over age of twenty-nine
I've never been the type to keep my feelings discrete
Sometimes I try to hide them buried under funny lines
Walked outta prison on the second day of January
No shirt, no shoes, no service on the flip phone
I made that cell my little sanctuary
Now I'm worried how I'll feel when I get home
I hung my pictures how I liked them
Found the perfect place to put them when the window let's the light in
And I got used to having cold feet
Walking on that concrete
And how the jumpsuit fitted on me
Most people hate it when it's quiet, didn't hear the way that I did
The noise made me appreciate the silence
I used to block it out and drift away
Maybe leaving was a big mistake

I'm just trying to stick to my escape plan

I'll be honest, I didn't fit in with the commons
And my commissary always was a little light
Yeah, I had my problems, oversensitive to comments
And I probably had a tendency of picking fights
A little loud mouth, but fuck it, I'm out now
Time to get comfortable around crowds
See what's happening around town, maybe grab a coffee
Dig through records down at Found Sound
Just keep my head low, my cellmate said so
Try not to focus on your cell phone (hell no)
Remember you don't gotta do this alone
Try not to focus on what used to be home
That Stockholm Syndrome could block your vision
Put you right back into the same spot you've been in
You gotta learn to be more honest with that
If you're not careful you might wanna go back

I'm just trying to stick to my escape plan

Always looking for the next fix, wake up early
Time for breakfast, development arrested
Signs pointing to the exit
Today I'm really gonna test it
Don't let it get the best, Chris
Have a good day man
Just try to stick to your escape plan
You're gonna be great man
Just stick to your escape plan
Track Name: Anywhere Instead (prod. L'Orange)
I take my coffee with three sugars and some cream
Killing myself softly with a puff of nicotine
My hearts a motor and I'm clogging the machine
Getting up hung over that's just part of the routine
Went to doctor, he said "Your liver's full of fat,
You better quit the booze," I said, "Well Doc, how dull is that?"
My doctor does the Iron Man, I put the bacon in the frying pan
DM me recommended diet plans
Was gonna kill myself by using exhaust fumes
Turns out the regulations made that shit too clean
So thanks Obama for the disappointment, now I just avoid it
Only time I ever die is in my dreams

Most days I can't get out of bed before it's noon
Don't wanna leave my room, looking at my phone
Knocking on the door, pretend nobodies home
Laying in my bed, wishing I was dead

Anywhere Instead

So baby let's go sell my car and get away
Hop on the interstate to any different place
'Cuz next time that you see me, I might not be awake
Take what we need and give the rest of this shit away

So take me to the universe where Chris is happy
So I can kill him out of spite, get a taste of what it feels like
Delete my hard drive, reinsert in the Matrix
I've had enough of this condition we call real life
'Cuz in this rap shit, people treat me like Chip Baskets
But Louie had to jack it, so now I just skip past it
And speaking of sad masturbation
Losers on computers gave me a bad reputation
After consideration, my isn't Red Pill, I had to change it
I'm going by my born name
And if you got the time to waste to @ me about it
Please hang your head in your shame


Most days I can't get out of bed before it's noon
Don't wanna leave my room, looking at my phone
Knocking on the door, pretend nobodies home
Laying in my bed, wishing I was dead

Anywhere Instead

So baby let's go sell my car and get away
Hop on the interstate to any different place
'Cuz next time that you see me, I might not be awake
Take what we need and give the rest of this shit away
Track Name: Bottom Feeders (feat. Fashawn / prod. Exile)
The bottom feeder, God believers
Can't foresee winning, but quitting isn't an option either
We spit the mantra that Nas delivered the ROC on "Ether"
I. WILL. NOT. LOSE.
Sick grin while I sip gin from a goblet, see your
Holy Grail runneth over with what I've been bleeding
Poison melody, aim and poise steadily
Pedigree of the Kennedys; bad luck and destiny
See the peasantry seek hope in serenity
Find heaven in chemistry, unplanned pregnancy
Minds caught in zealotry, unlimited weaponry
Lower than leprosy, star struck by celebrity
No longevity, no story or legacy
Erase the future with death the only penalty
No identity, trapped in the hegemony
Turn neighbors to enemies, repeat the elegy

And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky
They acting like they got the world on their shoulders
Looking at us like we're earners or soldiers
Fill up their banks or go fill up their tanks
Greed, money and death they instill in their ranks
But soon enough their little "burden" is over
People are learning slow, their co-word isn't covert
Not hard to decipher, not murdering Dozers
People are waking up the birds and the Folgers
Highly classified and preserved in a folder
Only to be exposed when the world's turning over
Seems like the world's doing homework
The rich have spent a hundred years digging their own dirt
And we're almost to six feet, critical mass
Pitiful let's pickle the pigs feet
Feet to the fire so the fire can burn
The water's dirty, we fight fire with fire returned


And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky

Fashawn:
Are you seriously surprised by the poverty?
By default, survivors we gotta be
Fuck classism we defy the propriety
Use hierarchy to divide the society
Like instead of property we get pollyseeds
School of hard-knocks, while they get Ivy League
We get commissary, they get college fees
So logically I went on a robbing spree
Obviously, I was jacking for freedom
Acting a heathen, trapped in a mentality
That was backwards, the reason
Instead of leaving the neighborhood
We thought we owned, but was only leasing
I would grow to believe in:
Not waiting on a mule or no acres
No patience for liberations, reparations, a better nation
Truthfully it's a struggle but I admit I'm
Accustomed to my condition, suffering from tradition
Still...


And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky
Track Name: Barfly (prod. Onra)
You know that feeling right before the shrooms hit?
Impending doom, living spinning, like what did I do?
Am I the only motherfucker who's living under this moon?
Feels like it's been twenty-nine years that I've been stuck in this room
Try turning, spin the chair, you know how little I know?
Eyes burning, smell my hair filled with cigarette smoke
And the lights are barely on and I'm fighting back the feeling
I'll be fighting this till dawn, maybe sleeping on the lawn
And don't look in the mirror (no), you know those issues clear up
Quick, you about to tear up (no), you see that shadow coming closer
Getting nearer
Get reckless when I'm introspective
With my hand across my left tit, I swear to God tomorrow
Morning after breakfast
I'm gonna change, I'm gonna tell all my confessions
But for now I'm talking to this whiskey bottle till there's nothing left


I'm a bartenders best friend
A little bit too open with confessions
And I've been charged to protect him
And use my scars as my weapons

There's not an addict in this world with no excuses
Temptation and desire, the scent of it seduces
The skill of self-control I've found is hidden and elusive
And I'll never find the truth if I remain too reclusive
So let me go on my adventure
Keep my excitement to a minimum, expectations tempered
Never remembered one as cold as this December
So, pull up a chair and let it warm you to your center
Moderation's for the virtuous
Take a look around, you know the devil tends to lurk in us
Don't be afraid when the vultures start to circle us
The lot of us will die never knowing what our purpose was
So have a drink on it or sleep on it
The tensions thick enough that you could roll your fucking weed on it
You're always in the future when you live in the past
'Cuz bar time is fifteen minutes fast


I'm a bartenders best friend
A little bit too open with confessions
And I've been charged to protect him
And use my scars as my weapons
Track Name: Jealous of the Sun (prod. Onra)
No one to tell us where to run
The day the people of earth got jealous of the run
Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
Lit a match...

So how the fuck I'm supposed to write a rhyme
While we're living in the darkest times we'll probably ever see?
And I don't mean that as hyperbole
You look around and it's unnerving, it's disturbing
While the earth is burning to a third degree
Deadly water on the rise because of burning seas
But no emergency, just the emergence of the anti-science
Magnify it while the ants die frying
And we can't die trying, the rich control the wars
With tomcats high flying
Bombs blast, crying moms ask why kids keep dying
Might just take one for the team and throat slit these tyrants
I mean, these the people supposed to give me guidance?
Hiding billions of dollars in Caribbean islands
Telling us that we should better ourselves
Stand for the flag where veterans fell
And sit there silent, come on...

Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
They got the power, we got the numbers
You live by it, then you die by the sword

No one to tell us where to run
The day the people of earth got jealous of the run
Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
Lit a match...

He's busy watching all his morning shows
Twitter storming in a shortened prose
Orange fingers, stubby orange toes
Performing for adoring droves
Of baskets of deplorables
To whom accordingly our story goes
History's just rewarding those
For the whom the bells of victory tolls
So therefore as history shows
Recorded and reported so
As alternative truth, undistorted oath
Backwards the pages of history goes
Send a warning to our foreign foes
Those torn by war and born by deported homes
They're marching forward with their morbid poem
And pledge allegiance to that orange throne
Red Pill should have taken the blue
Make no mistake where Chris Orrick's home

Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
They got the power, we got the numbers
You live by it, then you die by the sword

No one to tell us where to run
The day the people of earth got jealous of the run
Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
Lit a match...
Said "We are not to be outdone!"
And every smile turned to char
Every rapist, every killer, every child was a star
No one could tell us where to run
The day the people of earth got jealous of the sun
Track Name: Mom (prod. Nolan The Ninja)
And now that you've been gone for a decade
It's still hard not to cry on my best days
Haven't been to your grave in a couple years
I'm ashamed, but it's hard Mom.
Still fucking weird.
Guess I thought it'd get easier
Might find some peace in you leaving behind your demons here
But here am I turning thirty, just a man on his journey
I'm not mad, understand I'm just hurting
The more that time goes, the older I get
The more I realize the show that you missed
It's a whole lot of shit
I graduated from college, got a degree in the politics
Had a dream and I followed it, cross the country and ocean
And you missed all of it
But I'm alright though, still walking that tight rope
I have my days and I go through my phases
Where I'm fazed by the little things, but that's life though
And yeah I'm still with Kath
Thirteen years and no kids, just a little cat
His name's Pistachio, for short we call Stash
And I'm still doing rap, but feeling like I'm falling back
Steve and Mike are doing good
Couple engineers trying to make a better livelihood
And Jay's a little trouble maker, hard on him but I love him
And I don't wanna see him see him struggle later
Dad's doing the best that he can
I'm just praying for some rest for that man
Wish I could have seen the two of you when you were younger
Grow old together, couple things had messed with that plan
And my plans need some work of their own
Keep you alive with these words that I wrote
'Cuz you'll never meet your grandkids
And never see your kids married
I guess that's the part that hurts me the most
It isn't what you missed before, but what could have been
What's to come and what should have been
And every year I miss you more
I see your reflection in that man in the mirror
When I take the time to look at him
Track Name: What Happens Next (prod. Nolan The Ninja)
Every time I look in your eyes, I see your disguise
I read through the lines, 'cuz I know where the lies are
And you can try to deny, you know what's inside
There's nowhere to hide, 'cuz I know where the lies are


I see him almost every day of the week
Comes in for his gin, says what's up then he leaves
I know his face very well, I still don't know his name
But I know just what he's having so I guess it's all the same
Only one thing I ever gotta ask:
Is it pint, is it fifth, is it liter, is it half?
Grabs his bottle and his mixer too
Diet 7-UP with a little juice
Not much of a talker, but he's nice enough
We bullshit about the weather, the Lions, that type of stuff
Every so often he'll walk in late, smelling of booze
Eyes glazed like he's caught in a daze
Those are the days that make me hate my job
Try to remind myself it ain't my fault
Give him his bottle and he gives me his dollars
Alright then, I'll see you tomorrow

Every time I look in your eyes, I see your disguise
I read through the lines, 'cuz I know where the lies are
And you can try to deny, you know what's inside
There's nowhere to hide, 'cuz I know where the lies are

I heard he's almost thirty and still working for his Dad
'Cuz the music isn't working
He says he's got a record deal, label out of Tucson
But the story's kind of murky
Wanna believe him, it's just something weird
He hasn't been on tour in a couple years
And even so how'd he make it Europe
As somebody that nobody has heard of?
And shouldn't he be famous?
Not working on a truck for less than minimum wage?
He gets paid by the day, where's he get his money?
It was cool when he was younger, but he isn't twenty
I asked him how the music's going,
He said, "Fine," but he isn't one to brag though
He said, "How you think the music's going...
I'm still loading up a truck at Caramagno."

Every time I look in your eyes, I see your disguise
I read through the lines, 'cuz I know where the lies are
And you can try to deny, you know what's inside
There's nowhere to hide, 'cuz I know where the lies are

You can live for ten years the way that you want
Instead of seventy for someone else
But what happens next?

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