V1 Through the pages of tall tales and short stories/ I was systematically given by Dewey my own category/ As surely as it was written the chapters were satisfactory/ I’m booking niggas that’s claiming they’ve got a stack for me/ My raps are purely worded with allegories inserted/ Fuck with your hearing leaving one of your senses perverted/ Make sure you heard it. Rarely averted my verbal array with slay the barely assertive/ So get Judy to judge and spare me the verdict/ No matter how you interpret the letters, regardless of translation/ You’re illiteracy shows like Babylonian aggravation/ From lack of communication, sound barriers get broken/ Whether written or spoken, I turn-styles without a token/ Cause the way I coin a phrase will rapidly anoint the stage/ or vocal session, in every direction, let me point the ways/ By way of my index, I pretend like I’m in text/ So, I stereotype 6 rappers, and interject 5 spaces to indent/ Then I backspace to erase the last trace of niggas whose tracks waste/ My time. You’ll be last place to the line, due to the fast pace of my mind/ And it takes more than a snake or a swine/ To place me within a backbrace – cause I’m fat, ace, check the weight of my rhyme/ You diggin the slap bass? Trying to figure just how this bitch’s ass tastes/ Was headed for third base, the minute the bitch delivered the gas face/ Like Ants to acid, I burn slower than butter on a tepid gun/ Yo, cause competition is none.
V2 Now, you can bring it if you want it. But, be sure to keep the receipt/ Cause when I freak to the beat, you’re bound to get returned/ I seek the heat and set to burn your tape, to let you learn your fate in advance/ But that depends on if you tend to urinate in your pants/ I place demands on small bladders and weak podiatrists/ If there’s a reason I get pissed, then 5 MCs can die-per-diss/ And that’s a quota. You stated that you know the amount/ But you can strike it off the record, cause that shit don’t count/ I end quotes like double apostrophes, put commas in comas/ Make you dash to the doc, while checking your semi-colon for melanoma/ Revoke your diploma, low marks to question me/ Bastardize the alphabet, and ask him which parent he sees/ I use analogies and context clues on occasion/ Find my name’s in tune with Tonedeff, minus the hyphenation/ See, my inclination’s to slash forward and not return/ Cause if I come back, I’ma light you up twice like burned urns/ And pound ya. Cause what you make up is cakey/ I’ll leave you so flaky, you’ll be trying to hit the escape key just to evade me/ But you can’t quit out to safety/ So pay me with your pin-number to sway me away today cause maybe an 80 will dissuade me/ I’ve played the nice guy long enough, I’m charging late-fees/ Can’t fuck with the rhyme, so you’re hiding behind the 9 just like the 8-key/ I create divisions like space bars when you press me/ I’m like a hooker with her period – Fucking with me gets messy.
V3 Competition is none, and Tone said it with authority/ Cause competition nowadays is a majority/ Of undereducated niggas delivering horribly/ Swearing they’re more complex than their own inferiority/ And right behind them, There’s sure to be some whore at the local sorority/ Who’s wack, yet her shows are packed formidably/ Now, baby got back, but she’s a bore to me/ Cause she’s a front, like New York bottled water that lacks purity/ My aura be tapped straight from the stream of consciousness/ It’s not often that I’m impressed, so I’m popping your confidence/ At every given opp I get. All I’ll need’ll be a needle/ Some custom instrumentals and just over 30 people/ I’ll surely hurt your ego if you go that route/ I take the low road, but I don’t bow to no man’s clout/ No need to be way-high to express ways to enact this/ I planned the fastest path and ran McNally off the atlas/ And this I’ll practice, even when I be 95, I’ll still be at this/ Globally off-axis, hip-hop madness/ Regardless how the demographics are stacked/ Cause I’m the legend that never got on the map.
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