I move the crowd with no more then a mic and a hand motion,
stand motionless, one raised hand, not open.
Glance around and see this man posin'
both clock hands frozen,
I am that moment.
When I'm through the mic's so hot, you can't put your hands on it.
Catch a tan on it. Hiroshima, I go Japan on it.
Rhyme style so solid you could probably stand on it.
I take you through the basics, then expand on it.
Build my brand on it.
Drop rhymes so heavy like a gland problem.
It's been awhile but its kinda like riding a bike,
drop rhymes like flash backs of when the rhyming was tight.
Walk through the darkness I'm shining so bright
battled a whole lotta rappers but not a tight rhymer in sight.
And when the timing is right, and I'm inspired to write,
I spend time with it like my child or wife.
The flow's got me so hype, that when I recite,
I leave the competition lookin' like it got in a fight.
So allow me a little time to fiddle with little rhymes,
then my riddlin' Ritalin
gives relief for you simpletons'
troubled and broken minds.
What I'm speaking is undefined
undiscovered and undermined,
like finding a treasure hidden in every line.
Im bordering on divine, you rappers should all resign,
Or watch as I take what’s mine, while spittin unkind and malign.
I get on the beat and recline, and kick my feet up,
I give you line after line just call me re-up.
Your trippin on the mic, go hang your cleats up.
Great white hype on the mic, rappers I beat up.
Saying Yes to the Mess: a letter to my son
1 week ago