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Donât take me for nothinâ but a punch-line jester
Inside my chest I let the rhymes fester
âTil Iâm feelinâ like a woman in her third trimester
Then I just deliver â wait, scratch that
I mean I digest the liver of anyone try to test
When I flexinâ rhymes tight enough to twist in a rizzla
And when youâre smokinâ it, any type of narcotic is
An appropriate analogue, âcause what Iâm writinâ astonishes
This is Planet Rock crossed with the tightest mic product since
The writer of sonnets and Titus Andronicus
My life is synonymous with hip-hop fa shoâ
You could try to fight if you wanna, but one monkey donât stop
The show, as Dustin Hoffman knows
And when this Outbreak clogs your throat, no anesthetic is
Gonna stop the spread of this global pandemic
Rap fans get infected the minute a jamâs ended
God dammitâ¦
Iâve got mad style disease
Infectinâ a thousand MCs like spirochetes
Iâve got a sonically transmitted
Disorder of rhyme all of the time
Tanglinâ terrific talk the tongue-tweaker
I walk on your flows like Jesus on water with one speaker
And a dodgy mic and a five string guitar
This troglodyte might bring the stars
Back down to the underground, so all the alley rats can see
Like me, galactically, and break out of the battery
Factory farm, Iâm actually not particularly hip-hop
I havenât got the right swagger or stroll
I donât battle or ball, but I'm bound
To bop around the world like a Bedouin tribe
Writinâ down poetry, wearinâ amphetamine eyes
Settlinâ never, wrestlinâ idiocy to be unfetterinâ
Heads that are chained deep in the brain of the beast
My terrain is ceaselessly unfolding
It ainât just what I say; Iâll strip and preach naked
To the subway commuters, âcause as humans
Suits could never suit us, weâre unique from the day
That we take shape in the uterus, and the future is
Looking grim; I stand in the blistering sun
Watching the trees withering one by one
Feeling the spread of a sickness up in my head I predict this
Is the day my illness infects the hit list
Bear witnessâ¦
Iâve got mad style disease
Infectinâ a thousand MCs like spirochetes
Iâve got a sonically transmitted
Disorder of rhyme all of the time
How am I tryinâ to be rockinâ a tune if Iâm not a musician?
I listened to two million different hits and caught a few sicknesses
But Iâm still livinâ, âcause now Iâve got a new mission
Itâs never to let a rapper get in my auto-immune system
So I seep in your blood quicker than syphilis
In fertility clinics, leavinâ a hideous boil dribblinâ
I am the sickest citizen leavinâ impotent fuckers to think again
Givinâ em stinky ends with my written blend
If I fit the description, then thereâs been a distortion
This isnât just a little itch like when your genitalsâ scorchinâ
Itâs more than any medical professionalâs ever recorded
In their official report, a swarm of epidemic proportion
Now Iâm a witch doctor operating with minimum ignorance
Making incisions in your cynicism with my limericks
I fiddle with your spleen like a swizzle stick
My vocals turn an idiot to a misfit for the frig of it
Iâve got mad style disease
Infectinâ a thousand MCs like spirochetes
Iâve got a sonically transmitted
Disorder of rhyme all of the time
- Album:
- Big Boy In Love
- The Canterbury Tales Remixed
- The Rap Guide to Evolution: Revised
- The Rap Guide to Business - EP
- The Rap Guide to Human Nature
- Rapconteur
- Apocalyptic Utopian Dreams In the Western Wilderness
- The Rap Guide to Evolution
- The Rap Canterbury Tales
- Lit Hop
- Swordplay
- The Rap Guide to Religion
- The Rap Guide to Medicine