Launched out a super rhyme maker looking at the paper like my taker to anywhere
that is speak the cadence through speakers leaking all blatant to the
people who need it. Stroke the pen till it choke cold. Genius get the vocal tones
leaning that underground mean shit. My mind team stitching themes like a
fiend's fix. Dope it in your remix. Fast forward to mass force. It's me bitch. I've been
doing well creating shapes out of missing what I'm usually used to hearing
on tape. Traditions based on wisdom and balancing faith. Radio plays only based
on getting paid. It's secondary for me to be thinking like a slave so I think like
a page. Foundations laid. Make way for the pains I display. Rock it this way till my
hue goes gray.
Madman line for line writing on a mission like Eli's with a pen in hand
gripping rap different. Fans listen standing next to the speakers ears
bleeding from the bullshit most call em seeing. So -called MC ain't going in. And if the
question of favor was anything you hear it plagues in. Brainwashed with deep thought if
they let you in. Lose you in the mix of it but dare call it spins. I wonder who gave
power to them. Who put the paper above pride of the ten. Writing off topic to
the pocket of the ten. Dollar signs pointing to a profit of pretend. Locked into a barn
with two separate ends. Once the contract's out if the real map begins. Labels turn
tables to you against them. And that's where it ends.
