Lupe Fiasco, Nikki Jean - Little Death lyrics

Now bring it out like a finger
In the back of your mouth
Cherubs and cerebellum
Terror at Sarah's wedding, Sam marrying Sam
Band pushed upon the finger
Of Sam's hairiest hand (OOOH)
If that sickens you, you a bigot
If it doesn't, well then you're wicked
Such is life, odd as Egg McMuffins at night
No answers, so let us watch these dancers
Structure reformed gracefully being born
On the pallet of dark grays
Concaves and spirals
Kaleidoscope into a Eiffel
It ripples then it tidals
Vacillates then it virals
Babylons then it Bibles and others
And tell me of the spinning mothers
And today's mathematics for beloved
And beasts' bellies covered like
The cummerbunds of butlers

How was your day?
Can I make what you say what I wanna hear?
Cause, I want you here
The hell that we raised
To the heavens do anything for
La petite mort, la petite mort

They keep the bottles just
To make glass houses
Then climb up to the second floors
And throw rocks out it
Then expect not a volley in reply
Some place vulnerable like probably
In the eye what of the chicken? What is
It missin'? Is it dry?
Did it die in some inhumane conditions
So it didn't go relaxed
And the tension from it's demise
Pulled all of the flavor from the
Fat and made it flat
And rather lifeless, well there's a place
That has a stunning turbot and
More mercifully murdered Pisces
But barbaric are still the prices
It's rather niceless
Apricot in dices and fromage slices
My son will call risotto rices
If and when he's left to his own devices
Well how is your memory? Is it
Returning like a lemon tree
To bear bitter fruit of what you meant to me?
Or was it slippin' like permission?
Am I trippin' like field
I feel I'm grippin' but
Maybe the transmission
Still left out the life, also
Left out the will, grief
Will cheese never touch your teeth
Maybe like kosher beef
Is it real? Is it real? Is it real? Ha, hah!

Howl at the day can I make you my prey?
Cause, I want you dear, ooh, I want you dear
The hell that we raised
To the heavens make symmetries for
Our petite mort, our petite mort

So glad you're back
But not glad at that you're glatt
Where is the glamour in collapse?
Where in the shatter of the facts shoves one
Back to a pattern of stab wounds?
Swoon ridden goons consumed and
Driven mad soon
The atelier slowly fills with baboons
And other monkey business
Where killers go free cause the
Junkie's a funky witness
Runny mascaras from the cunning
Mask wearers of death
Bygone errors, sittin' like two oil derricks
Separated by a sea of cooling num nums
Reminiscing of an every day playing hum drum
Where recognition went unnoticed
And then solidified till it was stoic
We should've been poets
Somewhere between amateurs and grandmasters
Of iambic pentameter

How are your chains?
Do they make you behave?
Keep you over here, by your overseer
Fallen from grace
Down from Heaven to memories' floor
La petite mort, la petite mort