Lyrics I'll come Running Back To You - Edan

I'll come Running Back To You

The E-triple is a sick cracker,
I’mma flip fast, and bitch-slap a thick rapper
After this I’ll make your brain stop
Trying to battle’s like trying to light a candle with a raindrop
I ain’t having it;
you’re at the stage laminate;
After the show, you let me know you was a great fan of it,
The music that the E makes or creates
I’ll make a thousand beats out of three crates and feel great
But if you want to rush the place and bluff and base
I’ll fart in my hand and touch your face
I never need an L or booze to elevate;
I kill eleven crews
Make the Channel 7 news and celebrate
My cerebellum breaks atoms;
my brain patterns
Came from the same strange chasm that made Saturn
So don’t doze on the shit I compose, cause I was
Digging for Records while you was digging in your nose
So if you want to brawl and beef from across the street
I accomplish feats, cause talk is cheap
I meet jerks with a miss-ile, you’ll be hurt when I reverse your
Work into a shit-pile, The dictator flips data;
You’ll get slain by a diss-master so ix-nay on the chit-chatter
I’m so passionate, it’s accurate to say that I’m an
Addict for the mic, cause I keep running back to it
I’ll come running back to you…
So I was saying I’m a fiend for the
Pristine raps on the sixteen-track recorder
We oughta collaborate if you can imagine a way of
Lacerating the rhythm with fixing a fatter plate
When rotating on a Tech-12 platform
I excel at warp-speeds and jaws bleed
I force-feed a cross-breed the thoughts needed to
Keep a secret and leave a weasel easily defeated
I’ll tell you short like a dumb midget: you’re not rhyming live so get a
Motherfucking nine-to-five and run with it
I’ll sit your ass in a cubicle fast, or any other slave-
Driven environment for you to adapt
My name’s written on every appliance in your brain-kitchen
To make riches is one of my main missions
But it’s not the determining factor, your ass-crack will
Catch a back-draft when I’m burning an actor
Verbal assassin;
my architect pleases…
(«When I was twelve…») I ate a lot of grilled cheeses
But nowadays to hold the mic’s my only vice, so behold the might of a
poltergeist
It’s Edan not the Smothers Brothers
And if the microphone was heroin, I’d be a dead motherfucker!
Base-heads need crack;
I tried to leave the mic alone, but yo, («I can’t hold it back!»)
I’ll come running back to you…