[Intro: A.L.]
Yeah, Eddie Ill, D.L. A.L., All Lyrics, Willie Esco. Benny Blanco from the Britton, so check it out, y’all. Watch out, uh. Yo, yo
[Verse 1: A.L.]
New York living got me trapped in a play ‘cause it’s dramatical
I want some radicals taking their life for collateral
Theatrical scenes wake me up before my time’s late
My minds ache to find jake really part of the crime rate
But I’ll be leading, proceed to feeding lyrics as you need it
Grieving from freedom, pleading, bleeding from the things I’m reading
Your mind I stimulate. The mic is like a nickel-plate
So pick you fate: affiliate or leave up in a crippled state
We under dim lights, days are darker than the grim nights
I used my windpipe for insight. Now I’m in pinstripes
A prime example why I’m a slave to the sample
My brain’s got chains but the scars on my ankle
Rap was a trample ‘cause this life had never been nice
Walking on thin ice, I spin dice so I could win twice
I’m from a hard place. My life is sort of like a car chase
Amuse Allah’s grace. Others lose like they were Scarface
But couldn’t see that. Be that n*ggas puffing the G-packs
I’m losing kneecaps. What I quoted noted from G Rap
We live in savage times. Kids, they wanna grab a 9
Damage minds in wonder states. Kick your same average rhymes
I had a sign. ‘Cause this is rap, I’m the nucleus
Emcees are ludicrous, they’re new to this. I got some proof for this
Stupid kids kicking Buddha skits, they’re on my loser list
They got no chance. I’m too advanced like computer chips
My world’s ill. Girls kills using the uterus
Against the Crucifix, desecrating the Holy Eucharist
What?
[Interlude 1: Avatar]
Uh. Avatar, aka The Arctic. Yeah. Ayyo
[Verse 2: Avatar]
These lyrics
Are intravenous. I’ll bleed the most heinous of genius
Indigenous scroll, the zenith [pin the Cali?] finale
[?] the spectators to rally
The savage from the alleyway, the mic’s passion like Alizé
Thrashing with manic patterns on the stagnant public. I’ll take
My mic to madder days—I love it. A magic club’s
Liquid flows, legit scrolls. The superficial goes
Out the window. Real issues that’s official know
My mic’ll let ‘em know the culprit at the pulpit
Ill, lyrical, rough sh*t decoys can’t f*ck with
The mic I bust, quaking the dead. Syllables lead
Hollow points indented to leave a web in your head
I’ll write a poem and then glow. The microphone then fold
The pimp flows [?]. I’m unique [?]
Too quick for radar, Avatar’s way far advanced
Let’s spar with metal hands in ghetto vans. The crowd’s in a trace
When I ask the mic to dance, it’s the circ*mstance of a
Enhanced brother-slash-microphone lover
I don’t like to clone others on this sh*t and sip it wicked
Hazardous Anakins, he want some adjectives to be specific
I’m rancid, I’m righteous. So radiant, I might just
Supernova in the sky, spreading roses worldwide
‘Cause times is hard. Won’t you listen through the palace, god?
Kings and queens and lonely gods. My heart throbs to fix it
Vaccine inflicted soldiers and fall back with sickness
Jehovah couldn’t witness such a graphic image
Young teens turning to sinners. I sent this, repent this
In a sentence ‘cause within us is the power to change
Endless, relentless, we gotta shower our brains
With vengeance against the status quo. They didn’t plan to have
Us grow, but if you don’t try, you’ll never know
[Interlude 2: Overbite]
Yeah, Overbite. Overbite Mania. Believe in the Five P’s: Prayer, Power, pus*y, Poetry, and Paper. n*gga
[Verse 3: Overbite]
I got Redd Foxx charm, George Jefferson’s walk
Pryor’s storytelling skills and Dolomite’s talk
This girl next door’s such a beautiful sight
So I brought binoculars to watch her change at night
I conquer fashion. Some don’t get it. I wear
White after Labor Day and get away with it
Your chicks are too tramp. I’m trying to be Trump
But, true champ, troops chant but lie to chumps
Real giants stand on the shoulders of me
Futuristic—I got PlayStation 3
I was the last kid to get picked at gym
They used to tease and grin. Now I feel more slim
Overbite’s the cross of parents being mad
Their kids know my rhymes but don’t know how to act
I’m so confident to the point it’s pathetic
Forgive me. I haven’t and I’ll kick your rise fetish
Peace. Overbite
[Verse 4: Mazzi]
Yo, I ain’t about the [?] I ain’t about the ice grill
But if you wanna take it to that, I got the right skill
Tower like the Eiffel over adversaries
Commentary very vocabulary-orientated
Ghetto native made it without leaning toward the drug-related
Hate it when these rappers yap a lot from New Jeru to Camelot
I’ll slay them when I play them, so just call me MC Lancelot
Connect the dots—every single time, it figures my shape
When I touch the microphone, unwillingly, it gyrates
Watch me blow your mind like mental fellatio
Statistically get up in you at a high ratio
Realistically defacing fronts like a car stereo
Then mystically go naked and change your whole scenario
Audio, visual, M-A-double-residual
Hit ya, split ya, get ya, got ya in a tight grip
My delivery is slick. Brace yourself—you might slip, trip
Into my realm. I’ll overwhelm to the utmost
When I grab a pen, it’s like I’m [?] cutthroat
Bring it on, but I got better sh*t that benefit for definite
With proper etiquette, which causes action like a predicate
[Verse 5: A.P.]
Yo, my vocabulary spit words and crumble your world
Shake you carbonated cats ‘til you turn flat, learn that
The hard way. Burn like a hundred-proof
With no chaser. The wack squad eraser. The eye mic
Enforcer. The course of hard knocks, it made me rougher
The nitty-gritty hustle on some amped sh*t. Got a
Problem, better straighten it. Most of you cats are still
Faking it. Your money on the floor, I’m still taking it
Questions on the dough. Now watch me rake it. Went from nothing
My pockets to profit-stocking, came from project
Living to high-class spending. Back-day
Cats like, “How you living?” The money’s for the getting
Licking my fingers like what they hitting. Now roll sumpum
Well, Mr. Diamond, fold sumpum
[Interlude 3: J-Treds]
Yo, yo, check him out, yo
[Verse 6: J-Treds]
Ayyo, my word skill, I’ll sum it up in a word: ill
Spit ice—feel the summer breeze that I serve chill
Cold lamping. Top of the heat, I’m so the champion
People’s choice—not a rapper who goes to the Hamptons
Son, I keep it street. Weed in wallets the drill
Got ‘em fiending like seeds crying, “Mommy,” for milk
You can say I won’t blow, but I probably will
‘Cause when I’m in the studio, it’s like a bomb being built
I got a short fuse, light it up, setting it off
Heat a philly, feel the fire—son, I’m getting the torch
You can just get with it or just get lost
‘Cause I’m that big spaghetti with the extra sauce
I’m the living proof heads get bent off
When I chill, they experience a sense of loss
Son, that’s why they’re never telling me to kill the noise
I got what they need, so I came to fill the void