[Canibus]
This is the C-Section //
Ripping and repping the lyrical legend //
Sending ya'll 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 fuck around with "˜Bis and you're finished //
Lyrical menace, I'll strip enamel off of your teeth like a dentist //
With a sentence administered from the Executive Senate //
Chord progression followed by metaphorical methods //
Testing, 1-2-3-4, Testing, Testing //
Supreme supremacist, nemesis to competitors //
Predators eat intestines of anything they're interested in //
Slice you like lettuce and celery stalks severed //
Then make an emcee salad out of suckers 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 my brain simulating thoughts when I talk //
Idealistically I'd spit for free //
The stenography of the rhyme is what balances me, challenges me //
EA-6B prowlers, superior air power //
Fly around us with propulsion that's soundless //
Spitting rhymes out by the thousands //
Nitroglycerin 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 chin will disappear from attrition //
High intensity conflict is a given //
Especially if it's Canibus that's doing the ripping //
The snipping and clipping and the C-Section incisions //
With scissors with ergonomic grips for the fingers //
Liars for hire wit a defense like Jeffrey Feiger //
And five polite thugs that work for Mic-Club //
Hyped up, I tear the mic up my man //
And move forward as expeditiously as I can //
Ain't nobody in the world like "˜Bis //
The nicest with radio telescopic devices saying tight shit //
Facially hairless and gregarious, Jamaican-American //
Lyricist turned microphone terrorist //
Airlift me off the front lines 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-tracking you rappers //
With months of food rations beneath the Catacombs of Paris //
Theories of super lattice is super savage //
Atomic attack tachometers flash when I punch the gas //
Bitch, the farther I climb the harder I rhyme //
You've got to face death and survive to feel more alive //
The quality of life is an illusion of the mind //
Superimposed lines look two-dimensional from the side //
According to the size of the C-Section applied //
If they say I'm the best after I've died, don't be surprised //
I'll C-Section the sky and let my energy rise //
At the moment of truth I'll know it's definitely my time //
As my soul is squeezed through the sieve //
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 //
Its stresses me to think, this mic meant everything know it doesn't seem important //
Now I've got to 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 hour glasses turn and my life passes //
I'll just wait until I see the Master and I'll just ask Him //
Forget it, that's the future and this is the present //
A message to anyone listening to the C-Section //