Just sumthin' light.....
[dj scratches. ad-libs. Monch's intro]
It's been a minute.
Since i been in it.
Killin' shit.
I switched my iron pen for a keyboard,
so every ear in the Lion's Den
will be sure to hear me roar.
Clearly. Fear me.
Cuz when i come flyin' in...
I style on 'Iron Men'.
Without firing iron, man.
I fire men.
Light a fire under them.
The Grown been silent-n
it's time to fire an ocean
of fiery lines o' rhymes
thru ya' open fire hydrants.
Huh? Wait. what?
WTF does that even mean?
Nah. I meant to say...
Grown don't play with minors.
Nor do I play in the 'minors'.
I just open fire hydrants
of fiery rhymes to fire ya' lines-n
leave an ocean of silence.
Now get defiant.
And I'ma be flippin' wild detours
in all kinds of keywords.
Got a reaction that's 'knee-jerk',
built just for these jerks.
And the beat's murked...
if I ever grab a pen....
to put all these twerps
in absolute reverse.
I'll come back around the bend.
Shootin' absolute key verbs-n
send 'em back scramblin'
with more words eva heard
than a bezerk 'reverb'.
It's not a game.
Nobody smiling.
When the beat drops...
Emcees start wylin'.
n-Shit gets violent.
See in this jungle,
if it's your turn at bat...
Turn ya' bat. Or just turn back.
Stop firing, black.
Cuz even these 'dimes' can rap
way ova eyes-n hats,
n-break off a Yankee metaphor
all ova ya' Diamondbacks.
Now I'm back @ my birthplace.
Chillin' in 1st-Place.
But the smirk's fake --->
when I put these brakes to ya' pace.
Just like the first-time u had a worse rhyme
but still slid-out. All head-first. Str8 into 1st-base.
Now what's a worst fate?
The First is... Monch playing in the background.
While u getting 'clapped-down'.
On Second thought....
I'll be 'Yes, Yes ya'llin!!!'
Strictly 'Baseballin'.
Leavin jokers 'on deck'
with a worst case scenario
of 'earth face' & dirt taste
as they curse fate
while I 'ace-out' lotharios
who can't even crack the airflow
over 3rd-Base.
The Third mistake...
is their coach callin'
signals at home plate
as they face-fallin'.
Stumbling-n bawling.
All caught-in. A lyrical mauling.
That what it's called when....
I choose to shatter men.
Do more than just simply
pick out a SMPTE...
to bruise-n batter 'em.
Swiftly.
It's me.
Each keystroke
between these notes
will just cruise-n scatter men
if I let loose & manhandle 'em
what I say, will dismantle 'em.
Sever they atoms.
While I be
naturally spazzin' ova their National anthems.
In every Garden, from Boston to Madison...
Call me 'The Large Hadron' of Damaging.
Yet the dumbest of suckas
say i'm an old spearchukka.
Fdduck that.
This feared nukka..
got plans to scan 'em-n toss a javelin
@ the toughest muhfukkas.
Jux 'em from their Boondocks
right down to shoes, socks,
boots, or even moccasins...
and the advantage is...
this lance advances-in
and it even gets planted-in
their Timberland sandals, man.
Lion's Den...What's happening?!?!
I'm back again.
Punching-out mannequins
with elaborate antonyms.
Some rappers be yapping-n...
and 'gun clappers' just be rambling
and if they let the 'mack' out,
or be chattering without stammering,
some say... "Son's FIRE!!!"
But I say... punk batters be battling
to evade my lyrical pitch.
And in each life '3 strikes'
swipes ya' windpipe
quick as a bitch.
With no gunfire.
Battling me? or Batting against me?
If so, fa sho' another swing-n a miss.
Listen.
Cal Ripken caliber spittin'
kicks-in in cyphers and cliques
when i 'click-in'
and kick writtens.
After I pitch-in....
reflexes start twitchin'
from missing my 'fill-ins'
that be zippin' past ya' ass
at the beginning
of every inning.
And if u didn't catch it...
then my last verse
just swerved-in,
and curved-in,
all off ya' hands-n
did damage b4
being mismanaged.
So, take ya chances.
Or start hauling-ass.
And take that half-assed,
mad-dash, up the ave
for that '1st bag'....
Racin' up the 'foul-line'.
With foul lines.
And no umpire.
Shots fired.
Now everybody CLAP!!
[dj scratches. outtro]
CB MIA
