Eminem Bardcore lyrics

 Hark… If ye had…one chance.

One roll of Fate’s dice,

To seize all that ye’d ere yearned for,

would ye act? Or fall to indecision?

 Yo, His palms doth sweat

knees aquiver

his shoulders set

There’s be vittles in his bag of get

Mother’s baguette.

 He’s addled.

But no sabbatical

A face of stone to bring home his own cattle. He must own this whole battle. Up a creek with no paddle- no fishing tackle, he knows of no capitol

That he cannot sack. Five-string lute on his back, blade in his boot and some loot in his haversack.

 Hence he goes back to

his notes kept in his satchel.

Old poems and known facts

of these ghostly tomes practically

overflowing scraps beneath

fully-grown raps that he woes,

for lack of memory.

 Cold notions packed in his soul doth flow aft of him lo, after a nap with them cats of Baghdad, and then yo, he goes home and don’t know his own staff of his lonely old castle- his drafty-ass chaple. Orchard packed with bad apples.

 ‘Tis better to lose oneself in the yarn of a bard and his parlance

yeh ‘nary ev’re let it part.

The time’s opportune, lad.

and by the light of moon,

thine destiny may yet find ye….X2

 My soul doth swell,

from heav’n to earthly shell.

Mine armies march to the bells.

 To move borders-

new world order.

A story wrought of swords

and many sorties.

 Lo, this predation!

God’s grace that he found a face to plant his mace in.

A nation to span the lands

that he was raised in.

The pavement has made slaves of greater men- he must be greater, then. A slayer, then. His prey are traitors and purveyors of lesser pens.

 The lesson ends. Tis victory or back to peasantry and chasing hens.

Ignoble ends justified by ought but the thoughts of “noble” men.

 They wish to cross blades, and they may, knowing not He’s insane. He doth slay and be gay- sleeps upon graves and eats nightshade.

 He might raid because the mood simply taketh him. More than a brood of pimply boys it takes to breaketh him.

 By DirtPerson