It's just... harder to stop myself, then come off of the top... whatever. Hip Hop endeavor... Quicker than the wrist watch, n' lever... locked on the storage locker of Hip Hop, forever.

Body weakened, no recourse.
Yeah, blam' em' indeed.
They got no stamina, so man... I proceed.
1000 words, no cameras are seen.
Kids are all flash anyway. Amateur seeds....
Lightning in a bottle.... yeah, Thor...
n' the hammer's siezed... a Demi God when the pen's on...
the canvass.
Megatron.... faggot, with Mega Man's set of arms.
And Astro Boy's blasting ploys. Get that ass destroyed.
Train of thought; every track enjoyed.
Luggage of rappers in it, I'm packing noise.
Breaking decibel switches. Out of this world, pressing the distance.
Messages instant -- taneous to the text in this, wishing
Extraterrestrial's would test it, bro.
Lesson learned. They wouldn't. Mastered the arts.
A Picasso at rapping, but the Plato of philosophy, plastering charts.
A great, casted the arc.... after the flood
splitting the Red Sea passage apart... like THAT THERE'S A START...
Ha.. no Tablets, or marks.
No, no burning bushes. No. No learning goodness. No.
No wording, just a soul merchant controlled, being his own person.
Microphone thirsting.
Fuck rappers tho. They don't have to know.
My attack. Shit's so tactful though. Taciturn... I turn the tables
far as you cats are concerned.
Totally uninspired to kick it. I require a distance
more higher than a pilot wishing to fly his plane up to the sky.... with...
Opey inside of that bitch... and Tax Mastery
Oh, my bad... whatever his name's now.. I'll get it when the plane's down.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4k5pBYR0B34

You hot? You're lion -- should've took your fucking
neck n' put a mane around. Turn your your upside down smile
180 degrees so it ain't a frown...
Got the Satanic Crown...
what... St.Nick crown? My presence of inflicting pain is profound.
And you'll get a red nose, if you say I'm a clown.
Throw the lower torso of your bitch down a river and watch the Labia drown..
Then kick the unborn baby around...
Pull its FUCKING brain from the ground...
while it's having his last breaths, n' then laugh
as I project it at fucking stonewall, like a Crash Test.
Collapsed chest.. with my foot directions all over its fucking site
like it's MapQuest. I'm talking: A foot size, The brand, the type, and my address.
And then. THEN! I get a conscious like, "Let the lad rest"...
Sorry for that.. if you were offended by the bars that I rap.
It's just... harder to stop myself, then come off of the top... whatever.
Hip Hop endeavor...
Quicker than the wrist watch, n' lever... locked on the storage locker of Hip Hop, forever.
Yeah, the 90's.... and I'll stop it here. So... not to fear.
I'm a rocketeer. Hip Hop's here!