A rock star who drops bars and likes his women on E, like the number one.
Bitches call me "Mack Dad". Riches? I stack that chippage...
And battles? You know I rack wins like Baghdad wishes,
ya rag-tag cliques isn’t half that vicious...
fuckin with text songs? I’m past that business,
now I attack wack dimwits and fag cats in with their rat pack image who act that vintage.
I amass adjectives en masse.
Advocates of math averages have to listen twice in class just to catch half the gist.
Grabbing graphs, abacuses, pads, and mad packs of Scripto blacks to practice with...
like sad sacks of shit.
Just spit, put a mic in your hand...
who gives a shit if it gets slept on like a flight to Japan...
the shit i write’s as hard as life to an ant,
the type you’d like to write too but cant’ because you have the life view of Stan,
when my life’s through my likeness will go right to a stamp, like Ike, Hoover, Grant.
I’m the Mic Superman, with the brand new light blue tight suit and pants.
I’m like a bad smell at a rap show trying to fight through the fans...
In a class well above pass/fail and such...
Act twelve and up, rap well, and shucks, you’ll be Maxwell in months,
selling bunches of tracks, back on the Paxil one hundred caps, feelin drugged!
Now, is that swell, or what??
Sick with the flow, cats don’t have a fifth of the vocab in my quotes and think my note pad’s encrypted in codes.
Got the gift and it shows,
blasting diction like ignitions when a piston explodes
after you’ve driven half the distance the globe’s axis is
and the ribbons that hold it attached snap, rip, and erode...
rap symphony molder, a soldier enrolled in rap’s infantry,
throwing boulders at cats with a shoulder and back injury,
I over-react when exposed to your wack similies over these tracks
that sound like those most of the rap industry facsimilies composed over the last half century...
but phony, it‘s only an act.....
yo, relax, I’m still and inch from relapsing...
I’m like a strap that eventually snaps,
an energy packed cat with a bad temper that vengefully acts,
with mental recaps and flashbacks to fill the gaps that my memory lacks...
Your loss of respect’s a cause and effect course of events,
It’s like you cats altered your prints... like withdrawal, a defense,
you falsely pretend to be someone you’re not...
all for the friends?
for the awfully dense kids offering hints
like crime solvers and law firms involved in Vince Foster‘s defense?
How old are we? Ten?...
I can’t just say “You SUCK!“,
It’d be too awkwardly tense and disorderly, hence,
your feeble sense of self-respect can’t afford to be sensed...
here’s where your career cordially ends, and normalcy for immortal forms recommences...
till then be sure to record every sentence I form orally or even pen-printed...
or be defenseless.
Your miniature brain will only deminish your rank in this,
inhibit your language and opinions, and straight limit your strengths, bitches...
I reign I’m the official lame finisher
while you clean the pane on my framed signature... shit hasn’t changed, I came in a jerk.
It’s my claim to fame,
I’m a sinister saint in a church preying on lame laymen whose main sin is birth.
A paid minister who administers pain and shame in a verse.
A shaman with words.
My brain rains integers when dangerous agents lurk like when a glitch in the Matrix occurs.
Its circuitry is more ancient than dirt but works better than modern data chips like nature reversed...
Now, blaze, introvert... and rub these faggots faces in dirt...
hahah..
no HTML huh
