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Marks on the Beast

from Failsafe​-​B by Eric Beeny

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lyrics

Nate, Shroomy, Eric: It’s hard to believe, Beeny, Shrooms and Nativity, the unholy trinity, revert you back to primitivity. Naturally, we burn the phattest calories to earn the highest salaries. Too wild for domestic life, that’s why we unleash on these beats and watch the hip-hop community decrease. Our lyrics in prison cells, waiting on the date of release. Unfold on every crease. With iron mics over the stove, we’re putting marks on the beast…

Nate (Nativity/Autopsy): It’s straight amusing, the number of MC’s I’ve been abusing cuz I’m winning, they’re losing to the lyrics that I’m infusing. Have you coughing out hairballs like a feline, cous, bleach-blonde and afro with some goatee fuzz. What’s the buzz? Autopsy’s hot like tropical climates, send you back in history like the days when we were primates and my timing is coming at the worst it could ever be, cleverly changing what you thought was good to embarrassing—perishing. Every last thought that ever doubted me, then I’ll spit back some new shit, you can’t believe it came out of me—empowering. The first and last hip-hop coup where it doesn’t matter who you blew to be a part of the crew, thought you knew. It’s the Autopsy, so listen close: Don’t bother trying to smell cuz I’ll be breaking your nose, and you’re too blind to see cuz I’ve dotted your eyes. The battle you just started only ends with demise. And as for touch and taste I’ll have to show you a trick: See, you’ll have to touch my balls when you’re tasting my dick…

Shroomy: Stomping on your rhymes I’m an ogre, taking over your mic, fool, I told ya. You don’t possess the skill that’s required. Nah, honestly, you’re lacking, with much to be desired. Your lyrics always come out mumbled. Put the ball in your hands and you fumble. Lost yardage, torn cartilage, you let the team down. Kick gravel and travel, get the fuck out of town. You’re shitty, you’re stinky, like a porto-let, I wipe my ass with your lyrics every time I shit. You’re the water from the faucet that constantly drips, digging into my ears, yeah, and giving me fits. I won’t be able to rest till I fix that leak, put the nails in your coffin, yes, and bury you deep. I leave you in the past when I lay you to rest—you was praying for the leg but caught two in the chest. Come back, rehabilitated your injuries. Your ego’s too inflated by these bitch MC’s. Wooden puppet on the stairs with knocking knees whose strings are controlled by the Dre’s behind the curtain. For certain, there’s a lesson to be learned, you’re not real boy: Play with fire you get burned. I got no strings to hold me up…

Eric: Hip-hop is not a democracy, you must be crazy—I dictate to lazy MC’s who think they’re amazing. They’re frozen while I’m blazing, catch ‘em off guard like cattle grazing. Pass ‘em on the track and they’re the ones racing. So slow they’re stationary, wasting energy, they’re climbing mountains with ledges—they’re taking drastic measures. Only the sharpest mind severs, the cut reacts with severe hemorrhage—I leave minds with no leverage. Each time I come back, it’s not to attack: I spit verbal asteroids to make an impact. Then I retract to observe the effect of my contact. While my lungs contract, you go into relapse. My rhymes travel across the synapse to close the gap like acetylcholine to get my message flowing. Subliminal molding: Angel wings like a Boeing holding top speed to keep my mind from slowing. The shit I’m known for dropping? You need a seismograph, but the quake is so large you detect less than half. You do the math, motherfucker…

Nate, Shroomy, Eric: It’s hard to believe, Beeny, Shrooms and Nativity, the unholy trinity, revert you back to primitivity. Naturally, we burn the phattest calories to earn the highest salaries. Too wild for domestic life, that’s why we unleash on these beats and watch the hip-hop community decrease. Our lyrics in prison cells, waiting on the date of release. Unfold on every crease. With iron mics over the stove, we’re putting marks on the beast…

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from Failsafe​-​B, released January 30, 2004

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Eric Beeny Buffalo, New York

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