When Lil Yachty Drops His Final Album the 7 Trumpets Will Resound

Handing out a thank you to the guy the Flying Lotus
He did the heavy lifting, so you know that I won't blow this
Laying verbals on some fauna grew out of the Cosmogramma
Pieces assembled playfully in the cosmic diorama
Cycle through creative flu like life was Futurama
The ups are few and far between, a fluke within the stroma
But gather up the flukes enough, and soon you got a dub
Then ride the magic carpet till they're pulling out the rug
Some years ago, when double X L dropped there little vid
I watched with rapt attention, not adult but not a kid
And marveled at the cypher with the silly, sorry beat
That Kodak, Uzi, Denzel, Yachty, 20 laid to feet
The recipe was mixed together, tried and tested well
But dime a dozen cyphers aren't terribly top shelf
Until you get the perfect mix of chemistry and heart
And accidentally paint a legacy like Pollock art
Within the the several seconds that the rappers laid their quips
It's not exactly like they salivated golden spit
And all the bars apart might just have sank in cultural ocean
Forgotten just as quickly as the moment they were spoken
Yet all in combination, all the verses in a chain
Created a reaction that was famed beyond the plain
And elevated names of parties who'd participate
The cypher conjured up a luster, glow upon their face
A bow tied off upon the top of momentary fame
A flame that grew in mighty ways, tongues licking while ablaze
But grazing off a rocky land won't always satisfy
Cause soon the green is picked off clean, and stomach starts to cry
It's not that all the artists artificially achieved
A glow-up in the rankings of pop cultural prestige
They truly had a following, they truly held the stage
And to this day they mostly claim their place within air space
They tickle ears and get their checks and triple up their plays
Yet evidently, of the men who featured in the clip
It's obvious not all of them shot baskets that went swish
They didn't fall right off the earth, or disappear in smoke
But overtime, with newer rhymes, their name became a joke
The zeitgeist is a feisty brute, whose diet is of fruit
And once the food's no longer ripe, the zeity flies the coop
Now no one ever says, "I wish I hadn't met old Z!"
But it often seems celestial gyp to watch him fade slowly
And every man you'd interview won't utter out their mouth
"I wonder why the upward trend concluded for my clout?"
At a single point upon the graph that is your life
Unknowingly you reach the peak of fame and wealth and hype
And following the heights of all that momentary bliss
The wind picks up and blows away the trifles that you picked
Thus begins the downward trend, the endeth of the zenith
Celestial bodies start descent, to ground amongst the heathen
You ride the trike and maybe still you haven't fallen off
But gears have shifted up and so the pedaling gets tough
So what you used to peddle for some gold is now worth tin
You meddled with the plan, lived long enough, became villain
The invalid who started out the star, the champion
Is there pain within the drop off? Ratings drop from great to mid
Is there longing in the long game? Fame evaporates to mist
Every jughead in acropolis can feel a constant drip
And sipping from the cup of relevance no recompense
One day the goblet's empty, every drop has runneth dry
That's when your groundwork disengage, and raise into the sky