| Call me the rapscallion
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| A rogue rhyme sayer single-handed battalion
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| Thoroughbred pedigree like black stallion
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| The pale horse coudn’t come close to pose a challenge
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| And rappers pale in comparision to my styling
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| I’m dropping knowledge while they narrow minds popping violence
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| I listen for truth, all I hear is a calm silence
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| I’m looking for proof, all I see is my mom’s smiling
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| Beaming proud cause I stopped buggin' and wilding
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| Every man is an island —
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| — I stand alone like the cheese
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| Everyman is connected separated by six degrees
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| Walk the path of enlightenment down the road on we ease
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| By inches the gaps squeeze approching our destinies
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| Breathe out in a cycle that we share with the trees
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| And sway aimless like branch catch the rhythm of breeze
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| Always going but never knowing where fate may lead
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| Listen to my elders remember to take they head
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| Even when you smile meanwhile somebody else bleeds
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| And rose gardens get infected by weeds.
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| Never admire desires over necessities
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| I take time, to balance out all of my wants and needs
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| Keeping time, I tap my left hand on my knee
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| And with my right I write a style that’s free.
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| Running away from yesterday
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| Time is passing and I can not stay
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| Bless the children is what I say
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| I write the words and give them away
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| I was borned educated, I escaled to a
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| Style that’s elevated. |
| Above the average
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| Suckas who never made it — still trying to show out
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| But never paraded, it’s kind of faded
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| The way they stay jaded — from really knowing what’s goin' on
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| It’s like they stuck up upon the same song
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| I aim strong, above my goals because I know
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| That gravity is pulling me back down on the floor
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| So I prepare my presentation just before I deliver
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| Pull another verbal arrow up out of my quiver
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| Yo, I’m a precious piece of the history
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| People are still trying to figure out the mystery
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| Ancient like the streets of Sicily
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| I got the itch to be a high speed pitch fastball swing and a miss
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| Blacker than the abyss, and good for ya like a fat bowl of grits
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| I commandeer the mic and I spits
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| Shooting verbal knowledge at little kids
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| I use my voice box instead of boxing with fists
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| But square up on a square when I’m pissed — So where’s the list
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| The class is in session but weak niggas is dismissed
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| Go on back to the lab and practice
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| Counting my blessings on the lessons that I’ve been streesing
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| Louging with essence guessing I’ve chosen the right profession
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| Get up and motivate to the spot and I’m rolling late
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| But anyway that’s how we play out in the golden state
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| Big up my man he shakes my hand I pat him on the back
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| The salutation met with traditional wise crack
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| After the laughts we get to business for the afternoon
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| Reach in my bag and grab the CD packed full of tunes
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| Turn up the bass boost so we could feel the subs boom
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| Walls shaking feel like the earthquaking in the room
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| Make a selection choose the dopest of the dopest
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| For the rhymes session beats got to keep lyrics in focus
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| And vice versa, creating aural inertia
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| Moving forces with a purpose like fluid sounds to immerse ya |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song The Words , by - Emanon. Song from the album The Waiting Room, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп