He can't articulate to record just a simple tape
Can't bring himself to write about his crippled fate
Not even a little break even though he possesses strength in faith
Looks at the shit he made.. suddenly his visions fade.
He can't spit right, like he broke his tooth
His mind just wanders to that lonesome booth
He'll never be right again, he knows it's true
He's never gonna record something people bump as "The Chronic 2"
Awesome tunes boom throughout his room, as he wails violently
Because he fails to vibe on beats
But in his mind he brings silent heat that could silence streets
His lines defeat the tightest teens
But he can't form them verbally
And that's why he complains that no ones heard of me.. See
A voice appears in this re-occuring dream.
Saying his turn to be
A superb emcee has left its perch, it leaves
And his dreams shatter, but certainly
His concern to breath the culture he embraced
Could fall right through his face!
It's an emergency, a voice of urgency
And mutes his hate of this useless fate.
Then confusion rapes his delusions of greatness
And he pukes, till he's brainless.
Because his music is tainted
The best of the best, but a mute won't be famous
Just a mechanical exercise during my SSNY thing, trying to shape up for a champ match, or something, not sure whats going on for poolb-ers
links
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tomorrow, sawwy!