His name is Sage
And I had a lone Sage who sees through
You're not alone
Yeah
Troublesome, troubled son on the run
These days you never know
My father told me get a gun
Troublesome, troubled son on the run
These days you never know
My father told me get a gun
Way too many European clothes and not enough funds
I been on my own, if Poppa was around, it ain't no question who would own the home
Trust, I had to grow quicker than most
Sound definite, definitely heaven sent
Horns blazing, only some forget the sunken ships
I often reminisce, what spirit guide us calm regret?
Look myself in the mirror, start tearing up as I reflect
I rearrange my meaning
December days, I recollect, I reconnect through dreaming
A distant daze, my journey long, I fix my face to see it
Ronaldinho how I curve the ball, I'm Ziyech from a distance
Roberto Carlos 'round the problems, Henry with the finish
Winning strong, my Orixás, they often calling wishes
Witches, been scarred by the wicked one, the whispers
Heart burning, see the embers
My spirit been the saddest, most the time I can't remember
Karma from my last life, it ain't a time I can't remember
To live with reason
Treasonous upon meeting
Found truth, here it is in my palm, breathing
I'm living proof
I got fam in Santiago, I got fam in Tennessee
Child of Ogun, his spirit walk amongst the trees
Poppa dearest came from Nashville, it's Choctaw in me
It's Choctaw in me
Yeah
I got fam in Santiago, I got fam in Tennessee
Child of Ogun, his spirit walk amongst the trees
Poppa dearest came from Nashville, it's Choctaw in me
It's Choctaw in me
Troublesome
Troubled son on the run
So when you praise something
Alright? It lives
When the spirits praise us, we live
But their praise is our life
Their praise is our heartbeat
Their praise is the grass growing
At least I get to live
And everything when it die
You have to grieve the hell out of it
Cause if you don't grieve it, then it never was really alive
It didn't live, it's already dead
And that's what terrifies the hell out of us
If you have two centuries of people that haven't grieved the things that they loved
And they left, properly
Where does that grief go?