lirik lagu cassette era rhymer – chee malabar
verse 1
mama raised me some till rap took an orphan in
jumped into the talent pool where half these dude’s snorkelin’
that scram on site at the sight of my dorsal fin
morsel bits who ain’t worth my force of will
that spirit that k!ll it, mo—name my -ssignment
who, when, where, set the stage spot my buy in
we soured on their math so we flexed the sweet science
tweet, text, fax, tell the streets this beast primed
with razor blade phrases if you tryna’ catch a fade
slice necks, use their head for a paperweight
silverback gorilla waterboarding all these bathing apes
slaughter more emcees till they get their bars up-
keep at it till ali says, “chee it’s eid mubarak’
born into a war with burning tires ‘round my neck
and the sound of death playin’ loud on my deck
it’s now time, chow time, i want my pound of flesh
verse 2
rainman
back for the soundset, fired off an ounce or less
genuine hp, never settle for the counterfeit
these dudes claim it’s new school with that stick and move
i move forward and counter it, connect till they out of it
centrifugal force from the outer limit
this is style without a gimmick, cut to the chase
so i can, check if they listen when i hit ‘em with the algorithm
the true and living words married to rhythm
we paint sound visions, 20/20 with the laser incision
it’s clear beyond pair when we clear the air here still driven
we top gear, rolling through dudes need to lock the lair
the rhymes touch the sky and knock you off the air
headphone raps, lyrics box your ears
the veteran—rainman the antique, polished and clear
i shine through, focus and fire and light the fuse
verse 3
streets stopped watching so rappers went corporate
we hang ‘em by their ties and apply that blackwater torture
for backwater daughters, sons, for backdoor abortions
back alley commerce, crack wh-r-s and their orphans
we blood money sponsored from crack war fortunes
that reagan era rap, on trial in the courtroom
you f-cks this is rap: needles, ego, and wax
that run d.m.c. st–z in all tuxedo black
macaca with an att-tude, ethos of the trapped
peephole, latchkey, 20 people in the shack
hunger pains and growls in stereo when my pen moves
sit at the table or find yourself on the menu
pickled in the beast’s bell—human buillon cube
parade my ugly-rap full on nude
and some of ya’ll cool till you started talkin’ reckless
campaigning for an -ss whooping, i’ll help you get elected
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