S.R.V. My Smoke Ring Visions by Rebel Jones (Remastered)

[Intro: Heavy match strike, a deep exhale. A massive looping orchestral string section swells with intense, cinematic grandeur. Hard-hitting, dusty 90s boom-bap drums drop in fast]
[Voice 1 - The Inspector: Sharp, commanding baritone]
There's no stopping what happens next.
Look deeper into my smoke rings... S.R.V.
Find what truths you need to see.
Let my descriptive gift give you the visions you need. Let's work!
[Verse 1]
[Voice 1 - The Inspector: Relentless, razor-sharp East Coast flow]
A train derails, a plane goes down, a bomb in the British castle,
The worlds at a turning point, and that turning point is critical.
Everything's about to change, spiritual will become a proven visual.
They had to dumb numb down the masses, and introduce the truth,
Produced as entertainment, brought to you by the masters.
In the darkest hours, the white smoke rings tell tales of stingy pockets of men in power,
Not Gods but false idols with big towers, and statues in honor,
Biographies to collect dust on untouched ancient shelves not seen in centuries.
Thats how they like it—rule from the dead and shadows.
Never talked about or thought about, archived as some secret elite,
Rich assholes creating profitable wars, using countries as money laundering whores,
Need I say more? You know who you are!
[Verse 2]
[Voice 2 - The Chef: Deep, gritty, street-wise cadence]
Catering to the masses, that's what I do, my passion is Namaste to awaken you.
Until this happens, I say I'm bound to each and every last one of you,
You touch my soul because you're human—that's what life is supposed to do.
Where is the love? I miss that shit, I ain't felt it since Black Eyed Peas made it a hit.
The times world wide have gotten critical, and folks still don't get it, it's bigger than you.
See, what the basic problem is, there's no compassion left,
It's been hijacked by something sinister with a terribly dark gift.
And see, it doesn't sound realistic if you're asleep,
Because everyone knows you can't tell the difference of real and fake when you're stuck in dreams.
[Verse 3]
[Voice 3 - The Prophet: Highly deliberate, ancient celestial preacher baritone]
When I finally lay to rest, do not come to me in sorrow,
Those whom have my heart, embrace my hands and laugh with me,
As I tell you things of tomorrow, with one last laugh, and one last smile...
As the last few dew drops drip from morning rose petals, I meddle in matters of meditation,
The waters steaming as I dip my feet in, and begin transcending deep within.
In the final moments of moonlight, the darkened hours of morning are my favorite,
For the wee hours the thoughts of randomness come pouring, leaking from my fingertips.
The dragon berry black leaves hold my grains of herbal seeds,
Boldly inhaled, when burned in proper form leave me with visions within my morning smoke rings.
Frictioned thoughts fused as they touch, singularly they stay afloat in loopy forms of cloudy smoke,
This here in thought is when message presents itself for me to boldly unfold.
[Outro: Heavy vinyl scratching cuts up a dark piano stab as the beat transitions out into static]
[End]

3127/7500

[Intro: Heavy match strike, a deep exhale. A massive looping orchestral string section swells with intense, cinematic grandeur. Hard-hitting, dusty 90s boom-bap drums drop in fast] [Voice 1 - The Inspector: Sharp, commanding baritone] There's no stopping what happens next. Look deeper into my smoke rings... S.R.V. Find what truths you need to see. Let my descriptive gift give you the visions you need. Let's work! [Verse 1] [Voice 1 - The Inspector: Relentless, razor-sharp East Coast flow] A train derails, a plane goes down, a bomb in the British castle, The worlds at a turning point, and that turning point is critical. Everything's about to change, spiritual will become a proven visual. They had to dumb numb down the masses, and introduce the truth, Produced as entertainment, brought to you by the masters. In the darkest hours, the white smoke rings tell tales of stingy pockets of men in power, Not Gods but false idols with big towers, and statues in honor, Biographies to collect dust on untouched ancient shelves not seen in centuries. Thats how they like it—rule from the dead and shadows. Never talked about or thought about, archived as some secret elite, Rich assholes creating profitable wars, using countries as money laundering whores, Need I say more? You know who you are! [Verse 2] [Voice 2 - The Chef: Deep, gritty, street-wise cadence] Catering to the masses, that's what I do, my passion is Namaste to awaken you. Until this happens, I say I'm bound to each and every last one of you, You touch my soul because you're human—that's what life is supposed to do. Where is the love? I miss that shit, I ain't felt it since Black Eyed Peas made it a hit. The times world wide have gotten critical, and folks still don't get it, it's bigger than you. See, what the basic problem is, there's no compassion left, It's been hijacked by something sinister with a terribly dark gift. And see, it doesn't sound realistic if you're asleep, Because everyone knows you can't tell the difference of real and fake when you're stuck in dreams. [Verse 3] [Voice 3 - The Prophet: Highly deliberate, ancient celestial preacher baritone] When I finally lay to rest, do not come to me in sorrow, Those whom have my heart, embrace my hands and laugh with me, As I tell you things of tomorrow, with one last laugh, and one last smile... As the last few dew drops drip from morning rose petals, I meddle in matters of meditation, The waters steaming as I dip my feet in, and begin transcending deep within. In the final moments of moonlight, the darkened hours of morning are my favorite, For the wee hours the thoughts of randomness come pouring, leaking from my fingertips. The dragon berry black leaves hold my grains of herbal seeds, Boldly inhaled, when burned in proper form leave me with visions within my morning smoke rings. Frictioned thoughts fused as they touch, singularly they stay afloat in loopy forms of cloudy smoke, This here in thought is when message presents itself for me to boldly unfold. [Outro: Heavy vinyl scratching cuts up a dark piano stab as the beat transitions out into static] [End]

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