Not a cigarette but an ink pen in the hand
Opening minds, books and turning on lights
It wins while satisfaction cooks in the mind
I almost can´t hear chapo scream no cigar
Yet in a street of lamposts you learn height doesn´t determine shine
I´m no shadow, nor a myth swinging swigger, I´m a teacher
I don´t cover the ground nor do I shade your eyes
I take a piece of foreign reality and serve it like a chef
Show you what it´s made up of
The random soup of language
How to boil it with beans and rice
and how to choose the spice
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