Lyrics Multiple Choice - Linguistics

Multiple Choice

B, we got the illest, sickest DJ
C, we got the best beats
D, we’re all of the above, real emcees
Verse 1 — IQ
Ripping it with viciousness, incisions with scissor tips
A wizard, whip my magic wand on your mom’s clitoris
You illiterate idiots are blowing like a bagpipe
And couldn’t see me with a MAG Flashlight, thats right
My appetite is getting larger, hitting harder, getting smarter
Than a Harvard grad who had the star, spitting darker
If you can’t handle the shit go to San Francisco
Manage a disco, or cruise the planet with Sisqo
Just don’t be sampling this flow, fuck that
You rugrats are getting more spins than a hubcap
But you suck at rapping, I ain’t sparing you
You better bail out now before you need a parachute
Tearin' you a new one, I know it gets embarassing
You’re barely in touch and gayer than Mr. Garrison
Staring into the camera trying to please the media
You can’t compete with the lyrical encyclopedia
Chorus X 1 — IQ
Verse 2 — Entity
Swinging swords and axes, Writes of Passage
Entity brings war to slack, kids who play parts
I was sent to slay hearts, my sharp darts snap all on impact
I bomb tectonic plates till the earth crack
Your mom b’est explain how she birth wack
Passing genes for you to spit the worst raps, weak as fuck
If your brain capacity peaks its luck, your technique leak spits that suck
You couldn’t lay a fist on us
My apostoles rip hostile from lips to tonsil
We spread gospel, so awful
Our trip is an artful novel that melts fossils in the brothel
Even my breath is harmful
Superhero-marvel, look at the sparkle in my eyes when I watch you
Ready to die, yo I got you
Drop the marble, hidden floors, using Marshall-Law
I crack jaws 'cause I’m raw, intense like scenes from Saw
My mic stand is a spleen from God, here to scream at some broads
When I’m caught hid in a place, I’m lucky
They let me out of the cage, against the machine like Rage…
I shift the stage with earthquakes kill tracks in one take
To see me its rare like undercooked steak
The metaphor for me is 'scrape', when I’m set upon hate I was told to finish
'your plate'
Verse 3 — Kasper
My accursed cursive turns words into worse verses
And serves the first person deserving in my observance
In layman terms, I’m the purest, the furthest from fake
I remain perfect, since birth I made it my purpose to surface and stay above
ground
Around the then-emcees that understand the art that I’m a part of
Get cha gaurds up, cause when you least expect it
You could be the next rapper Kasper just checked
Come and test your skills I gaurantee you will not survive
I apply enough pressure to pry through your mind and find whatever lies inside
And use it as leverage against your defensive set of ryhmes
So why would you ever think that I wouldn’t prepare for battle
If I’m prepared to die, look in my eyes, your can see the fire within
The passion that burns as the passion that lives
I’m as sick as they come when it comes to spittin'
Off of the top or written it’s just a gift I was given
If its a mic ima rip it, with little or no effort
My flow sounds eastern but I’m reppin' the western
So don’t you ever compare coast to coast
Unless you dare to compare this pair of hands to your throat
My grip is like slipping in a pitbull’s jaw
You gotta spit a full clip just to get me off, bitch