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Mic : Sound Music Bitez

Black Pearl ‘s lyrics

Spectrum Wave Publishing

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Copyright@ 2025

Mic sounds

Like a fly

Waving to

Bite your ear

Because

Some y’all

need hear

Hot Potato

Times 2

Base line

Alkaline

Ph detects

​7.9

( read between

the punch line )

Major hot pursuit

Grass grows through

Concrete

the whole world had seen

the footage the garden

Surface released right out

Up North

From Cepot’s closet

Where shadows are the only thing that reap.

No sun, no sky, a ledger without ink—

Toilet water inmates were forced to drink

The truth is what the jailers never could think.

For sixty grains of sand, the hourglass stuck,

No hand could move to document our luck,

Or monumental loss. A silent screen

Where what has been and what should be, between,

A gap yawns wide. A nation holds its breath,

And records sleep a semblance of a death.

This is the game. The passing of the blame,

A heated thing that carries Nixon’s name became , by a pretended mad king ‘s . He called the Hot potato game.

It’s in the pocket of a tailored suit,

A stain that spreads from buckle to the boot.

I told you once, I ain’t you twice,

They spin the tale and roll the loaded dice.

They never gonna stop, while doors are locked

In fact, as if a warehouse were stocked.

While the whole world shock, the plumbers tape the mic,

And stage the set to make the darkness bright.

And in the silver reservoir, a coil hums,

A digital vein where all the future comes.

The water knows your name, its path a thread

In AI’s ledger, quietly widespread.

The meter’s mind, a cold and calculating god,

Prepare to double up the tab we have to pay .

And sustenance. The main tenants, unaware,

Will find the well is thin and metallic, bare,

All the way down to that unspooling coil—

A privilege now, withdrawn from

Hot potato.

The Great Depression is set to drop.

Everything was right within our hands until

The fool, who swore upon the bible’s sand,

Came in and let the rot command the land?

Fool me once, the shame is on the house.

Fool me twice, we field the frantic mouse

That scuttles where the lions feared to tread.

We’ve landed in our own sleek coffins, fed

On promises. The tempers flare and whisper,

As from a gilded, unforgiving cistern.

And in the yard, the animals begin to march.

( Watergate)

similar as connect four ,

but the media didn’t ask

To lead on the dance floor.

Hot potato was

Passed quickly before it burned.

Watch it fly as every vested interest turns.

I told you once, I ain’t you twice.

They are never gonna stop the spread of vice.

While the whole world is shocked, they play the ancient game.

The Great Depression, peering through the flame,

Is about to drop. The music slows. We see

The final pass was made to you. To me.

We hold it now. This scorching, ticking core.

This truth we cannot document… or ignore.

Hot potato.

Hot potato.

Hot potato

You are it !

Skin

Black Pearl

Spectrum Wave Publishing

Copyright @2025

Some call me bitter

I’m just in rage

I don’t see anything

, but an

Empty page

Of violet woman

Standing alone

One stem

Where foot

Is the root

Surrounded

By soil from

The earth

Separated

Fence from

Other side of the world

On whatever

Oh, well

Different strokes

For different folks

Other folks are

Being treated as joke

Moral truth

The world at large

Collateral damage

I still live bitter

These days

Because they

Treat my people

As if we are slaves

Smiles don’t

Belong where

I come from

I was born

This way…

I remain relevant

I know how to

Behave

It within

My skin

No, I don’t need

Any medicine

This all comes

From the melanin

DNA which all

Belongs within my skin

That is how the

Story begins

All within my skin

---

A Bridge cross on

Whatever,

When things are not right,

I could see the light

At the first sight

Until I became

A woman

Now I understand

All men’s evil

Made as a nomad’s land

Unsuccessfully plan

As they all assembled,

It didn’t control me

I became compelled

By the light

Light never could

Blind me

Upon, it made me wiser

Than I could ever be

It could never

Break my spirit

No, no, no

They could never

See me fall

All compelled

Within my skin

Don’t you know

There is going

To be a revolution

---

A massive bloodshed

It shall be released

By our skins

In what is inside

We can no longer hide

I watch them standby

Provide the verdict

Because the murder

They wrote

Our fate has been

Tested

Experimented

We won’t be

Taken for granted

Without a doubt

These are signs of times

Be prepared for a major

Blast

Succotash this

Our skin

No longer will

Be the next man’s

Meal ticket

I will say it again

We seek revenge

As our tempers

Get loose

While they had taken

It all, it would last call

They won’t be

Having a ball

Destiny relieve

Our final redemption

Shall be our laugh

After they have published

The draft,

I saw the dragon

Rise above the sea

Ten horns

Ten crowns

Seven heads

When the dragon

Gave the beast

His sword,

At this final hour,

As the bell strikes

Twelve times three

As the spirit invests

Bind within me

All this had happened

Which lies within my skin

That’s how the story begins

---

Maybe live in high class

May not pas

The brown

Paper bag test

Combs may not

get a pass

Trust me,

Trouble never lasts

Every thing

Lies within my skin

This belongs to Black Pearl Spectrum Wave Publishing copyright @ 2025---

Spectrum Wave Publishing

Spectrum Wave Publishing is dedicated to amplifying voices and narratives that challenge dominant historical currents. We are proud to present works like From Warm Sea to Cold Crown, which embody our mission to publish thought-provoking, beautifully crafted, and essential stories. We believe in the power of the word to act as both a mirror and a map—to reflect truths long obscured and to chart paths toward deeper understanding and restoration.

This book is part of our Reckonings Series, devoted to works of historical witness and poetic testimony.

—THIS BELONGS TO SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT@2025

Black Pearl

Black Pearl is a visionary writer and poetic historian whose work resides at the intersection of memory, myth, and historical reclamation. Writing under a pen name that signifies both rarity and resilience formed under pressure, Black Pearl’s narrative style weaves stark metaphor with lyrical prose to examine the deep roots of power, displacement, and identity. From Warm Sea to Cold Crown: A Tidal of Crimson Deed is a foundational piece in their ongoing project to restore the silenced threads to the tapestry of human history.

THIS BELONGS TO SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING ~BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT@2025

Chapter VII: The Annual of the Weavers’ Reckoning

In conclusion, both Father East and the Mother Nation, for all their dominion and grand titles, were architects of the same deceitful design. One mastered the warm sea’s currents, the other the cold calculus of conquest. Each forged a kingdom not through creation, but through claiming—a ruthless prosperity built upon a single, brutal transaction: the appropriation of human souls and the severing of ancestral roots.

They grew rich on the yield of stolen territories and the silent interest paid in generations of bondage. Their legacies—those glittering crowns and towering citadels—were mortared with their hands and laid upon the bloodline of the crimson harvests and scattered beads, the countless lives swept up in their cruel tides.

Yet beneath this layered history of theft runs a deeper, older truth. Every life they trafficked, every culture they fractured, originated from a source they could never own: the Garden of Eden, the true and first mother of every land. She was the original vine from which all humanity branched—the real mother, whose children they exploited but could never erase.

Her legacy is not one of coin or crown, but of resilience. It is the unbroken thread in the weaver’s hand, the unyielding rhythm in the drummer’s heart, the memory that outlasts all empires. While the monuments of the deceitful fathers and mothers may crumble, the garden’s story endures, waiting patiently for all her scattered children to remember their true, shared genesis.

---THIS BELONGS TO SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT @2025

Chapter VI: The Circle Turns

Centuries made her progression. Now, millennia reveal our regression. The result is the great blockage—a world frozen, its potential stifled by the trauma of that original snatch, by borders drawn in sibling blood. Yet time moves in a long, slow circle. It is said that when three thousand years have turned, the wheel returns to the true hierarchy: the small, the humble, the woven. The weavers’ thread remains. The garnet silk of resilience, the enduring drumbeat, the beads of black, brown, bronze, and beige—all colors that together band black, a united strength no bleach can fade. This is the reckoning. We must empower our stepping stones; every reclaimed memory, every rediscovered rhythm is a stone to build a road over her blockage. When the circle completes, she will be faced with all her stolen children, finally woven back into an unbreakable band. And from that memory, we will remake everything.

THIS BELONGS TO SPECTURM WAVE PUBLISHING BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT@2025

Chapter V: The Weaver's Strand

Her method was sacred vandalism. It was not merely the conquest of land, but of womb and memory. Her "team missions" to claim new worlds began with the foundational sin: the taking of the child from his mother’s arms. She targeted the indigenous mothers, their skin the rich brown of soil and deep black of night—the true palette of the earth. She overthrew the keepers of civilization and called them fugitives. She bonded with them. What had been built over centuries—philosophy, trade, community—she fractured in the name of her progression. The children of the sun were taught to forget their mother’s tongue, to hate their mother’s hue, to kneel before a pale, cold statue. The small ones, the weavers, wore nets of garnet silk and carried Bantu drums. Their beads held every color, each a tribe, a story. If strung together, they would form a band of deepest black—a unified truth she labored to unravel, scattering them like dandelion seeds to the four hemispheres.

THIS BELONGS TO THE PROPERTY OF SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING~BLACK PEARL COPYTRIGHT@2025

Book II: Mother Nation

Chapter IV: The Crown of Theft

In the beginning, there was not one mother, but seven, each set upon a continent by Father Earth, each sworn to a sacred covenant. They were unique in language, life, and the living spectrum of their skin—a human band of countless colors. Harmony reigned until one mother, from her cold, isolated island, gazed upon her sisters’ gardens with a hungry eye. She opened her Master’s Book to the oldest, clearest page: Divide and Conquer. She forged a trident from stolen steel, built legions with trickery, and composed an anthem approved by popes and scribes. She stole the symbols of Greece and Rome, claimed patents on the trident and helmet, and proclaimed herself the Mother of All Nations. Her crown was not forged of metal, but of jewels—each a stolen bloodline, a ruby of a fallen kingdom, a sapphire of a conquered coast, a diamond prised from a sacred mountain.

THIS BELONGS TO THE PROPERTY OF SPECTRUMWAVE PUBLISHING~BLACK PEARL cOPYRIGHT@2025

Chapter III: The Silent Garden Endures

This tree was planted by the Mother of Mankind in the first garden. She was no surrogate. Father East, alongside other powers, made attempts to tarnish her name, to hide her stories from the children, marking her grace with symbols of disgrace. Yet, our true Mother tends her garden still. In the silent watch of the night, she speaks to the spirits of her stolen children: “Hold no fear, for our Maker remains near. He shall provide, exceedingly and infinitely, a restoration deeper than the sea, a bounty that outlasts the years.” The ancient trade across the warm sea was the first great fracture, a human tide flowing eastward centuries before the Atlantic’s storm. It is the older whisper in the ledger of loss, a foundational sorrow upon which later, vaster systems were built.

THIS BELONGS TO THE PROPERTY OF SPECTRUM WAVES PUBLISHING~BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT@2025

Chapter II: The Children of Confusion

Thus were born the children of confusion, shattered by a fabricated discontent. They were fed a grand delusion and taught to bow to a borrowed crown. Pale guardians—like leukocytes in the bloodstream—overtook the lineage, a story never explained, never redeemed. A million breaths, a million beating hearts, were bartered into bondage. They were traded to raise the infrastructure of empires that had already seized the brilliant brands from our ancestors’ hands—the knowledge of the Moors, the strategy of Hannibal. And when the wars of Europe raged, east, south, and west, their borrowed greatness was built upon this plundered foundation. Our architecture, our philosophies, our science and art—all were fruits from a more ancient and divine tree.

THIS BELONGS TO THE PROPERTY OF SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING, BLACK PEARL COPYRIGHT@2025