Lyrics Gold & Bronze Magik - Canibus

Gold & Bronze Magik

They can’t do shit with me like a custom model Tyson\nA herd of wild bison trying to get that cake without the icing\nCan’t stop the poison, empty glass in intestine\nI’m destined to rest in the Sun, weed in the Westin\nPulitzer Prize priceless verses is in the resting\nAs a new bible, witness tribal wars for block titles\nVital organs stop, subtle\nFiends like they’re lions, when they get around the rock and huddle\nUndertake, bodies ungulate, under earthly underlays\nUnachieved summaries, no open warranties\nCause my flow is never broken like a pregnancy\nWhen I speak they’d rather see polluted clouds rain Hennessy\nTake you with no receipt like dope traffic currency\nUninsured surgery when under my knife\nSome paid with a briefcase, some paid with their life\nMy home sticks is Baghdad under U.S. plane strikes\nIt’s a useless vein tap with an empty syringe\nInjecting wind into the blood flow, sip ether and grim\nSmoke secrets from burning circles, sour diesel and singe\nThe cloak, the grim reaper, creeping, sneaking, you in Round and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nYeah, I see it, yo, yo, uh-huh\nC-write, give it a little umph!\nYeah, O dot Megahertz, you already know what it is Axe, inseminate the place, 614\nYeah, you know what they say?\nBehind my back they say he’s very arrogant, but they air they’re inhaling in isn’t there to sniff\nDare to whiff and I’m tearing the air to get from where it is There’s a chicken hailing and I’m tearing it through her pair of tits\nThere’s a kid, my fist is impaling him through his pair of ribs\nFrom a kamikaze, crazy bomber, drama like Shady’s mama\nFucking with bitches ugly as Biggie’s baby’s mama\nAnd I stay, mismatched to the socks\nBitch laughed, said my name’s dispatched to the cops\nStitched patch on my crotch reads, «Kiss me, I’m Irish»\nMy click be the flyest, don’t, excuse me, I’m biased\nBut try us and lose the cocky smile, who could stop me now?\nWhen I’m right on the money like the Illuminati owl\nIf I’m off, a DJ mixed my acapella wrong\nMozzarella’s long enough to buy the rights to every Rocafella song\nI’m lying, but not when I’m rhyming, my stock is hella long\nToo hot to mail a song, the mailman said he thought I mailed a bomb\nRain, sleet, snow or hail, I’m smoking well\nGranted you’d think I was Spanish how well I rolled an L To where they meet it, or see the chocha, I’m living la vida loca\nI’m Peter the chiba smoker, no reason to cease the dolja\nBreathing a leaf, Jesus, I’ve seen crows from beneath the roses\nThat sweet aroma could wake Pete old cold from deepest coma\nBut know the skills' on over kill until I reach the reaper’s quota\nPut him out of business then hire him for cheap to clean the sofa\nEnds with the bones of Barbosa, flow’s well written\nNo help given, I’m self-driven like a chauffeur\nStill spitting that crazy shit, you don’t like it?\nYou could suck a fat baby’s dick while it’s dad babysits\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nMelatonin Magic MC\nOne, two and three\nYou are the reflection of an illusion, you do not exist\nWhat you feel is real, everything else is a script\nThat they wrote for me, I hallucinate creepy crawlies\nRhyming is a hobby, you can’t even talk to me DJ’s, radio stations, millions of listeners are prisoners\nTheir salvation is not your business\nCanibus spit when Canibus wanna spit shit\nGot that? Don’t let me have to tell you again\nThe Western world is spiritually sterile, in great peril\nWe in the concrete jungle where they spank apes with the metal\nI rhyme for the betterment of the culture\nI don’t spit no hot sixteens for promotion\nOr corporate vultures who act like they own us Self-expression is our birthright, not a bonus\nHip Hop can govern come together and show the whole world something\nThe voices of the not so beloved\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nMelatonin Magic MC\nOne, two and three\nI spit it 'til I’m free\nThis is Lyrical Law, the golden flame turns the gold bars into bronze\nIt draws upon magik from the stars\nThis is one more installment of Lyrical Law\nIf everything is in good order, I spit some more\nThe moral of the story is this\nDon’t get pissed because your upbringing was strict ‘cause life is a gift\nYou got food to eat, you got teeth to eat it with\nShoes on your feet, don’t be conceited, be content\nEven when you lose, think about what you did to win\nIf you did the best that you can, you did a good thing\nBut you shouldn’t smoke weed if you swim\nDon’t buy assault rifles, don’t fight dogs, don’t hit your girlfriend\nDon’t mix cocaine with unprescribed medicine\nAnd don’t say you’re sober if you plan to do it again\nWith that said sleep tight tonight when you go to bed\nThis is Public Service Announcement 2010\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nRound and round, the burning circle\nAll the seasons: one, two, and three\nThe Melatonin Magik MC\nOne, two and three…\nCome sit with me, come sit with me…\nMelatonin Magik emcee…\n1,2, and 3…