| My microphone has grown out of my wristbone
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| I’ve lost control of my vocal tone, spitting this shit chromed
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| I’m possesed by hip-hop delivering spirit
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| I fear it because my hand is constantly scribbling lyrics
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| I can’t eat, or even sleep in my bed
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| Tormented because a beat will always creep in my head
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| I can’t listen to a drum loop without timing it Can’t hold a conversation without rhyming it I walk down the street and my brain’s known to rattle
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| Because I’m thirsty as hell for a mother fucking battle
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| I have no TV, already broke it in three
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| Because I turn it on to see another whack emcee
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| I have lyrics in my head, they always stop and then go I constantly daydream about rocking a show
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| Write my rhymes all my life as it begins and ends
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| Broke as fuck cause I’m always out purchasing pens
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| I’m the analyst, obsebalist of existance
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| The last dime in the dollar, completing the sentence
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| The ninety other pennies tossed through the wormhole
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| Worthless as the bitch dancing naked on the pole
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| I’ve seen twenty different worlds, at least eight dimensions |
| I’m better than an ameteur, repends the state of pensions
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| Who’s the next worthless soul ready to stand up Thinking they got the Holy Grail but they’re sipping the false cup
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| Lately I’ve been spotting, on the words of the rotton
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| With my looking glass, and hands to the upper class
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| Groups of blinded ones gather at a steeple
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| I label it an eating place for meaningless people
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| Coalitions to hard rocks living without purpose
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| I sarcastically attack with the womens word circus
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| A surface of slippery ice, a dangerous crack
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| In the path of the ones who walk with their minds slacked
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| Verge in the microphone, you begin to panic
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| Because I’ll make the crowd seem the like the Atlantic but your style is frantic
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| It’s so whack the store banned it Had people covering their ears saying I can’t stand it My style is so fly you can’t land it, I bring the supply because people
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| demand it My rhymes stand alone like they were a bandit
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| Three hundred and sixty degees my CD’s outstanded
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| It’s so smooth it feels like it was sanded |
| Figures of speech make me smile like you were uncandid
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| I’ll pass you like you’re a hand-it
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| When I come with rhymes that punch like a fist
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| Taking your microphone so fast cracking the bones in your wrist
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| Seperating you from me like mist
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| Eliminate the competition, by spitting from every dimension mentioned
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| Benching emcees for flenching as I build up tension
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| Clenching the number one spot
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| Leaving your body to corrode and rot, corrode and rot
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| Pass me the mic, I’ll ignite like the birth of a constellation
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| Spit rhymes without hesitation, poetic devestation
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| Hip-hop's my love and recreation
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| Causing me to rise like elevation, syllables slice causing decappitation
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| I hold the mic tight enough for strangulation
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| Getting technical like a capotilist album rhythm is my precision
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| Rhyme angle like pereputal vision
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| Code like red, I drop lines like a clumbsy cokehead
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| Judge like Dredd, countdown till the twelve hour has begun
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| I’m the one, the chosen son, I’m an odyssey like space, 2001
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| A new day has begun and the weight on my shoulder outweighs a tonne |
| And when I rap rhyme, something always wicked this way comes |