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tilt |
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your frame ain't built for this angle |
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lateral battle moves, we strike on command |
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with this mic in hand we ignite like c4 |
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and see through your paper this schemes |
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[high priest] |
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it's about to get more ugly than the faces of broken homes |
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with no china, bitter reminder, finder |
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figuratively speaking i'm like flex |
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index on the next tunnel banger |
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unbending a hanger to strangle or stab men in the abdomen |
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grab my head to stop the shakes |
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bake crates and take tapes to create new webs |
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but for the love of the mic there is nothing |
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that's what a rapper thinks |
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what happened to being passionate about life |
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your spider scence is tingling |
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fingering new singles to select hi, i electrify microbes |
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incite crowds like a knife tossed off the top of the twin towers |
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wonder twin powers deactivate |
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decapitate these apes and finally make them understand |
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tilt |
|
your frame ain't built for this angle |
|
lateral battle moves, we strike on command |
|
with this mic in hand we ignite like c4 |
|
and see through your paper this schemes |
|
[beans] |
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stupendous shuffleboard shifting |
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indescribable like inkblot |
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never the frail perils provokes popular plague perish |
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poverty jet set |
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empty bottle figurine bodies built for speed |
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bulimic cheerleader night ladies |
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who resemble underweight premature crack babies |
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circle like sharks undressed in the surf for cheap thrills |
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but any upper class numbskull like coke on the head of your cock |
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shoot the horse to make glue, send you on the road to glory |
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kick crash |
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cast feet are dead, banished with bandwidth |
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banging heads mc's on empty |
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embrace my warm reception like blowing the nose with sandpaper |
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any time after now |
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my always tight as a tube top ignition |
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remains stable like staples as sheets to the bed |
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father of your abortion |
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no need for memories with a dictators generocity |
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diction of velocity chokes the respirator |
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[m. sayyid] |
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next shit slaps and spit out cats |
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into the ring off the canvas |
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into the press with the cameras |
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work it out like seventeen hammers |
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sayyid last seen with skeletons on scanners |
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room sixteen, the tropicana |
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where the lovin is good and my focus is dopest |
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so boast this concussion and comatoses |
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better be ready to battle before i ghost kids |
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overdosage of volts, quote quote |
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my shit splashed liquied nasty like a cyst out of the wrist |
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unquote, dope like a belt, vein, and a fist |
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slip your disk, break your back and put it back back to the shack |
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in the back of the back of the back where i laugh with a hat |
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open a latch, spark a match, and walk onto the track |
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marlboro red you |
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change myself into chuch scarborough and walk out of the bedroom |
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unwebbable bisymmetric centrifugal nonshiftable mineral pivotable |
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wild east nile, up close into your nose hole i roll |
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lop-sided in a vial, slide into the disease file |
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with piles of styles in crates |
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smash your face into the shape of new york state |
|
tilt |
|
your frame ain't built for this angle |
|
lateral battle moves, we strike on command |
|
with this mic in hand we ignite like c4 |
|
and see through your paper this schemes |
