Lyrics Toxified - Baba Brinkman

Toxified

I really hate to do this to fakes, but the truth is
All it takes is two lips to make this music
And compose soundtracks to show how in fact
I know how to rap and got my flows down pat
I’m the best-kept secret, blessed to speak this
My breath crests the peak and gets swept beneath it
Like dust under the rug, like lust under the love
I trust when my number’s up, justice from above
Will curse every critic whose words get me livid
Diverse metaphysics as the earth steady pivots
On its axis, know what I mean?
I’m so keen
I can flow at the speed of a sewing machine
And stitch patches to fix rips, nicks and scratches
Then sit back and sip six packs of fatness
I got a little trouble with cholesterol level
But when the dust is all settled, the rest is all treble
It’s cocky hiphop
I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit
Rock the mic
In a din of adrenaline like winning a cock fight
And when it gets dropped the night’s toxified
I rip apart a track when I start to rap
Cardiac arrest, chest collapse, heart attack
I stress the coronary artery, the corollary
Coroner’s report said the tests were extraordinary
The autopsy shows what hiphop cost me
I couldn’t shut off the flow and just talk softly
And so instead of an out of court settlement
I chose to live and overdose on adrenaline
I’m forever blessed, my flesh is resurrected
Whenever I flex it’s like pleasure injected
A Sorcerer’s apprentice with swords of tempered steel
Mental skills' harder to ignore than a dentist’s drill
I rip mics toxified with nitrous oxide
And spit with lopsided lips in cyphers cross-eyed
I’m known to set the mood but don’t get it confused
'Cause I won’t let the juice alone until I set it loose
It’s cocky hiphop
I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit
Rock the mic
In a din of adrenaline like winning a cock fight
And when it gets dropped the night’s toxified
Rappers with flaccid erectile tissue
Get blasted with massive projectile missile
Like the mother of all bombs, nothin' but raw funk
Ruggedness locked on, what is it y’all want?
I’m at your service, when I rap so perfect
Serpents get served, then act so nervous
Like after raw sex with no contraceptive
I’m next on deck lookin' calm and collected
My life is about writin' each crisis out
Liftin' this mic to this mouth, and hypin' the crowd
Like electric voltage.
I get no kicks
From rejection notices, so neglected postage
Can’t stop my delivery, and when I talk busily
My style cannot really be clocked visibly
And so my flow seems like a ghost in the machine
That goes between what I say and what I’m supposed to mean
It’s cocky hiphop
I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit
Rock the mic
And when it gets dropped the night it toxified