Chapter 2
Mc's cannot be created or destroyed, mad verbs deployed
A void of greater-thans: four letter stanzas, rhymin' with your hands again
Shadow figures, let my choice of weapons linger
I lost my middle finger but you can do what you like
With your, "shit, bitch, fuck, dyke" - get your gold teeth off the mic
Beneath the plate with two strikes
Id change with my fame, make all my verse tame
Just dont put a 'k' on the end of my name

Ignite the fuse as i abuse, continue to confuse
Cus your flows are recycled, and reused, which side of the spectrum do you choose?
Too many mc's have simply paid their dues
But ive died and come back with a new pair of shoes
To out run, and out last, into the future from the past, to chastise your pride
Fast eyes are on my side, i return like the tide
To sweep away the last remnants of your dignity

When i grab the mic, mc's never run, rather gather son
And check my sermon of deliverance from the new style
Ya lyrical pedophiles, rappin orators of their verse put a curse on the scene
And i see truer rappers sportin jean jackets
Tennis rackets be the weapon of their choice and when they bring it to ya boys
I watch their little knees shake as the suckas break your confidence
And take the few cents that you got left, to catch the bus ride home
Wherever they may roam keep it out my domain
And at this time, i'll conclude to explain my thoughts, theories, and reflections on the
Following, check it: fame, martyrdom, time, space, rhyme, reason, seasons, iced tea
Friends, the end lovers, brothers, mothers, love, peace, rock, trials and tribulations
Red heads, and long legs. . . and im out