| Yo, when we do this, fans throw they hands up like
|
| Wacky-waving-inflatable-arm flailing-tube man
|
| Pack a venue, put the stage on the menu
|
| Continue coming with force out of this world like the Ginyu
|
| You ain’t never seen this, kid from the future
|
| Unsheathing his genius, trunks on some DBZ shit
|
| My mic check’s the kiss of the dragon
|
| Jet Li in a black mask, kicking late supporters off the back of the bandwagon
|
| The boom bap Ermac, using sorcery to kick raps with
|
| African American black magic
|
| Fuck a gun, purple my DBZ shit
|
| Cut a rapper tongue while he emceeing, he ain’t even see it
|
| Towards him coming like them WorldStar punches
|
| The crowd start forming then yo heart start thumping
|
| Bass pumping, moving yo feet, we shaking up the streets
|
| Godzilla feet, beat Rodan in a beat
|
| metaphors, bounty hunting Boba Fett, Megazord
|
| Punching out contenders like Ganondorf
|
| While these labels using interpolation to hide samples
|
| Removing the soul, the jungle of radio club anthems
|
| Too creative for living dormant — super human black boy
|
| Vocally Virgil Hawkins, static shocking my chakras
|
| The dialect is electric
|
| The luminous explosion of energy outshine the whole galaxy
|
| Supernova soliloquies
|
| The lyrical lobotomist
|
| As I break ground, sonar, my boom bap rocking shit, I shift the continent
|
| Word is bond with beats like a symbiote
|
| Building pyramids with all my mental blocks
|
| Beat a beat, could be the Ramses of the rap scene
|
| Pharaohs and free kings blessing download links, preach
|
| Say your graces, hail marying they faces
|
| They Pastor Ma$e and the Bad Boys have been forsaken
|
| Relay the message, thumping in your section
|
| It’s not a cypher, this is a sparring session
|
| Use your mind as a weapon, we detonate on a record
|
| T-minus 3, 2, 1 seconds, now mic check it
|
| Pacifist kids turn anarchist
|
| The archer artist adjust the scope, focused as Clint Barton
|
| Bending corners with a poison gas arrow for six targets
|
| Don’t get me started, uh, spawn and dearly departed
|
| Bringing maximum carnage, be your own Basquiat
|
| Put yourself in your art and originality’s tarnished by
|
| Fear, not belonging, that’s what you walk on your own two for
|
| Welcome to the Clone War
|
| Repeat it, tell ‘em copy that
|
| I have ‘em saying 10−4 — nigga 10−4
|
| Gamma rays, microwaves, and tinfoil
|
| Sparking minds, young intellectuals, I am light, illuminate
|
| We as bright as a bezel, that’s why we shining on levels
|
| Keep an eye on the treble
|
| Downloading an album, Jack Sparrow
|
| We stick to the script, but coffee stains turn me to improv
|
| You couldn’t hang with a sprained ankle, escaping the lynch mob
|
| Mechanical maniac, mechanism do the knowledge
|
| Cannibalistic mind opening Anthony Hopkins
|
| I got a jetpack with two handles made out of microphones
|
| Blast these raps off when I blast off
|
| Leonidas when writing, two hundred and ninety nine people behind
|
| Soldiers without the guns
|
| The one, the author from Sparta they bring us to be fearless
|
| Surround us with drugs and violence
|
| Then move to the suburbs where cops become your new rivals
|
| (Sir, do you know what I’m stopping you for?)
|
| As the world keep spinning ‘round, thunder clouds, lightning showers
|
| Shining down, raining, hit the ground and burn down the town
|
| Staring at these man-made bright lights
|
| I got sun in my eyes, my lids wide
|
| I’m climbing — staring at these walls, all four sides
|
| For three nights, I ain’t even blink twice
|
| One time behind me, one time beside me
|
| Looking up, up in the sky, praying that I start flying
|
| Like angels with wings and a halo, they know
|
| Fuck do they know, these kids shooting like it’s Halo 4
|
| With 4−5's, where we tell ‘em |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sparring Session, artist - Clear Soul Forces. Album song Gold PP7s, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп