I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts…
Step into my funhouse, get lost in every section—these mirrors stretched tall and wide distorting your reflection. When my mind convex, you concave, lose the election—lose your erection, step off your soapbox without honorable mention. Behold the sun’s ascension. With centipede legs for eyelashes, I’m the new invention. When I grab the mic I’m like Clark Kent, step in a phone booth—I come out triggers on twin tech 9’s like a saber tooth. My lungs digging holes in the air, occasionally refilling ‘em. Verbally broke MC’s: I’m billing ‘em for every mismanaged syllable. Hospitable to the point I point out where they screwed up and fell out I come back in drilling ‘em. Ask ‘em where’s your heart at? You think that sounds phat? I’m dropping heavy words off a balcony, put on your hardhat. When you lose your balance I’m a flawless acrobat, tightroping your flatline with no net beneath me, my hands tied around my backside, barefoot with a two-headed broom in my mouth sweeping a verbal landslide—making each end coincide. I guess I get high off a good rhyme. Jacob’s ladder I’ve climbed—a steep incline but, when I reach the top, suckers below will measure my height with stage props and the number of albums I drop…
I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts…
In high school I took the crash course with no collision—other cats got their heads snipped off like botched-up circumcisions. Now I’ve made it my religion to rock shit with precision. I break you down under conditions of rapid cell division. Get your place and index cards ready, and watch the teleprompter—visual sound monitor. My rhymes cruise the freeway with a broken odometer, and as a pessimist it’s effortless to imagine me passing tests with flying colors. (Wait, what?) I equate your apocalypse with my jock itch. My tongue is a light switch flipping through on and off positions like strobes or magnetic poles in global cataclysms—it’s a best-ever series on television. Ya’ll take cold showers while I’m spontaneously combusting. Tin men who need oil, ya’ll sound a little rusty. I’m thrusting with hot fire breath like a dragon, burning ya—try battling me and catch a hernia. Word up to Sterling Silver—him and I go back like timelines that ain’t been drawn yet, you think I’d forget? Man, fuck regrets—I pop this in my tape deck with respect and towel off while you other cats are still wet. It’s not rappers, it’s lyrics you waste and, if you can’t push your real shit out, I’ll squeeze you like a tube of toothpaste. In a catastrophe, I thank [g]od for blasphemy, and everything else that doesn’t matter to me…
I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts…
