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The Rubric (feat. Verbal Kent / prod. Calvin Valentine)

from by Chris Orrick

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lyrics

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

credits

from Portraits, released May 4, 2018

license

all rights reserved

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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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