BAD MAMMA JAMMA THEOLOGY

كلمات الأغنية

[Intro — spoken] I guess you could say I’m just spitballing here, After a huge toke, Arrogantly assuming I hit it out of the park in one guess. Lord forgive me if I’m wrong— But damn, the pattern looks familiar. [Verse 1] Everybody’s got a theory when the smoke gets thick, Kings got armies, bankers got arithmetic, Prophets said watch, politicians say wait, Everybody speculating on tomorrow’s exchange rate. Future commodities, future land, future oil, Future sons getting buried in somebody else’s soil. Young ones go first, then they call up the old, While somebody trades futures from a penthouse made of gold. Hail Caesar— Heil Hitler— They come and they go. Ambitious, arrogant, self-righteous— History already knows. Important, self-serving, A real dime a dozen. Every generation swears This one here is something. [Pre-Chorus] The sword is always lighter In the hand that never swings it, War sounds clean in Washington When somebody else has to live it. [Chorus] Hello—wake up, America, Who carries the sword when the orders come down? Who smells the smoke when the ships turn around? Who gets the medal? Who gets the ground? We speculate, speculate— Put a price on tomorrow. Somebody buys the upside, Somebody inherits sorrow. And I’m sitting here thinking, Lord, maybe I’m wrong— Then I see the same old rhythm Playing the same old song. [Verse 2] What are we really fighting about? A border that might move? A resource we might need? A market we might lose? Stock portfolios growing While the body count compounds, Asset managers talking While the artillery pounds. Does the ordinary Russian Need an American dead? Does the American farmer Need a Russian filled with lead? Does the kid in Tehran Know the kid in Tennessee? Or did somebody much wealthier Decide what enemies should be? [Bridge — half spoken / half rapped] Maybe the enemy was never only out there. Maybe he whispers inside. Pride. Greed. Fear. Power. Possession. Pack enough of it together, Generation after generation— Humanity takes one enormous hit And wonders why the room is spinning. Maybe I’m seeing Providence. Maybe I’m seeing patterns. Maybe I took one gigantic bong rip And gave myself a doctorate in Revelation. [Breakdown] Confidence proportional to the evidence. Remember that, dummy. You don’t get one guess And call it prophecy. You don’t see one pattern And declare you’ve solved history. You watch. You test. You pray. You repent. Because everybody thinks they’re Daniel Until the handwriting appears on their wall. [Final Chorus] Hello—wake up, America, The mighty always swear their moment will last. But Caesar became history, And Babylon became the past. No king owns tomorrow. No empire owns the clock. No portfolio survives forever, No army conquers God. So maybe I’m spitballing. Maybe none of this lands. But tonight I’m dropping monster jams With a controller in my hands. [Outro — spoken] Bout to throw down some monster jams in NBA 2K27 like the bad mamma jamma I am. Right, Lord? … Lord wisely declines comment. [beat drops]