"Little Death" lyrics - LUPE FIASCO

Lupe Fiasco:
Now bring it out like a finger in the back of your mouth
Cherubs and cerebellum, Tara at Sarah's wedding
Sam marrying Sam, band pushed upon the finger of Sam's hairiest hand
If that sickens you, you a bigot
If it doesn't, well then you 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
Kaleidoscopes 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 belovers
And beasts' bellies covered like the cummerbunds of butlers

Nikki Jean:
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

Lupe Fiasco:
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 its 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? Haha

Nikki Jean:
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 cemeteries for
Our petite mort, our petite mort

Lupe Fiasco:
So glad you're back
But not glad at that you're glad
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
That other monkey business
Where killers go free 'cause a 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

Nikki Jean:
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