|
This is the C section |
|
Rippin and wreckin the lyrical legends sendin y'all to mic club heaven |
|
This is the C section |
|
A lyrical legend second to none in this profession |
|
[Canibus] |
|
I spit it exquisite |
|
And rip it minute by minute |
|
I'm in it to win it |
|
You fuckin rhyme with bis you finished |
|
Lyrical menace scrape enamel off your teeth like a dentist |
|
With a senator minister from the executive senate |
|
Pro-gression followed by metaphorical methods |
|
Testing 1 2 3 4 testing testing |
|
Supreme supremacist nemesis to competitors |
|
Predators eat intestines of anything they entrusted in |
|
Slice you like lettuce and celery start seven |
|
Then make a mc salad out of suckas and sell it |
|
For an expensive percentage |
|
With nine tenths of the credit |
|
Drink red bull beverage to increase lyrical leverage |
|
I only give respect to mic club members and my own mentors |
|
In the center of my circle where I dare you to enter |
|
This is art imitating life imitating art |
|
Imitating the brain simulating thoughts when I talk |
|
Idealistically I spit for free |
|
The cinography of the rhyme is what balances me |
|
Challenges me |
|
E A six speed prowlers |
|
Superior air power |
|
Fly around us with propulsion that's soundless |
|
Spittin rhymes out by the thousands |
|
Nitro-glycerin tablets under the tongue calm me down a bit |
|
Attitude cynicism and lassitude |
|
Battle you? come on dude I should slap you fool |
|
Spit what I'll leave your lips numb the friction is so sick son |
|
Your children disappear from a trition |
|
Rhythmic high intensity conflict is a given it |
|
Especially if Canibus is doin the rippin |
|
You snippin to clippin in the C-section incisions |
|
With scissors with rubber ergonomic grip for the fingers |
|
Liars for hire with a defense like Jeffery Fygar |
|
And rock it like thugs who work for mic club |
|
Hyped up and tear the mic up my man |
|
Move forward as expeditiously as I can |
|
Ain't nobody in the world like Bis |
|
The nitrous with radio telescopic devices |
|
Same type shit |
|
Facially hairless igogarious Jamaican-American |
|
Lyricist turned microphone terrorist |
|
Airlift me off the front line to my therapist |
|
So I can sit in his chair and tell him how much I care for this |
|
This is what they want this is what they love |
|
To engage in the exchange of ideas and drugs |
|
While I'm in the cut satellite trackin you rappers |
|
With months of food rations beneath the catacombs of Paris |
|
Theories of super-lattice and super-savage |
|
Atomic attack tachometers flash when I punch the gas bitch |
|
The farther I climb the harder I rhyme |
|
You gotta face death and survive to feel more alive |
|
The quality of life is an illusion of the mind |
|
Super-imposed lines look two-dimensional from the side |
|
According to the science of the C-section applied |
|
If they say I'm the best after I die don't be surprised |
|
I C-section the sky let my energy rise |
|
At the moment of truth I know it's definitely my time |
|
As my soul is eased through the sive I'll be grateful because I lived |
|
The only drawback is that I didn't have kids |
|
To C-section my beautiful whiz |
|
And see the resemblance of my face in hers or his |
|
Who knows what the future will bring |
|
It stresses me to think |
|
This mic meant everything now it doesn't seem important |
|
Now I gotta follow orders defend borders |
|
From Maine to California Seattle to Florida |
|
If I could talk to the Oracle I know what I'd ask her |
|
I'd speak to her about my passions |
|
As the hourglasses turn my life passes |
|
I'll just wait till I see the master and I'll just ask him |
|
Forget it that's the future this is the present |
|
A message to anybody listenin to the C section |
|
[Chorus] - repeat 2X |
