Meticulous Chaos Tabs
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Competition - Meticulous Chaos.gp3
(Canibus)
Y'all done fucked up now
Oh boy, it's the Brainstream, blazing the green
Rip a mic no matter how wasted I seem
(Canibus)
I wreck that shit when I mic check that shit
Canibus, nigga, he the best that spit
Fuck the fact I never had a hit
I don't need it cos I never met a rapper that I ain't rip
Walk strapped with a mic, and a fifty minute D.A.T. for the night
Just in case your show ain't tight
Step on stage and pace left or right
Like a lion ready to bite, you dying tonight
More lines to your forehead than Brian McKnight
Thousand Watt voice-box, I'ma fry them tonight
I be shitting on sight, meticulous with the mic
It's a mic, but I rip it like I'm palming the knife
Lyricist that don't lounge, break a nigga down
Says you iced out? You can keep the swelling down
Lift you off the ground with chokehold till your bitch screams
"Let him down, he's a MicClub member now."
Beat you with my brow, force you to speak loud
Like, motherfuckers give me fifty bars right now
Plus another fifty, that's not a hundred, you spit eighty-six, you trying to tell me you can't count?
Throw you in a sweatbox, let you sweat it out
One, two, three, four, is one bar, figure it out
You civilian maggots ain't ready for the illest rapper
Allied Metaforces in the joint access
Computative compliance of the rhyme science
Protected by the MicClub security advisors
Pick the mic up and train, till my voice becomes number again
On the murder-tile exchange
Too violent to tame, wolf bane pumps through my veins
Put emcees to shame, the lyrical linguist
Spitting vintage, colloquial English
Like, 'who art thou? Bow to the ten inch dick
Sucketh it,' I'm the alpha-male of this shit
I'm the king of the pack, bringing it back
Tell the Queen of the pride to come sit on my lap
Her body is spotless, she ain't got one scratch
So you can keep them other ugly bitches in the back
Y'all done fucked up now
Oh boy, it's the Brainstream, blazing the green
Rip a mic no matter how wasted I seem
(Canibus)
I wreck that shit when I mic check that shit
Canibus, nigga, he the best that spit
Fuck the fact I never had a hit
I don't need it cos I never met a rapper that I ain't rip
Walk strapped with a mic, and a fifty minute D.A.T. for the night
Just in case your show ain't tight
Step on stage and pace left or right
Like a lion ready to bite, you dying tonight
More lines to your forehead than Brian McKnight
Thousand Watt voice-box, I'ma fry them tonight
I be shitting on sight, meticulous with the mic
It's a mic, but I rip it like I'm palming the knife
Lyricist that don't lounge, break a nigga down
Says you iced out? You can keep the swelling down
Lift you off the ground with chokehold till your bitch screams
"Let him down, he's a MicClub member now."
Beat you with my brow, force you to speak loud
Like, motherfuckers give me fifty bars right now
Plus another fifty, that's not a hundred, you spit eighty-six, you trying to tell me you can't count?
Throw you in a sweatbox, let you sweat it out
One, two, three, four, is one bar, figure it out
You civilian maggots ain't ready for the illest rapper
Allied Metaforces in the joint access
Computative compliance of the rhyme science
Protected by the MicClub security advisors
Pick the mic up and train, till my voice becomes number again
On the murder-tile exchange
Too violent to tame, wolf bane pumps through my veins
Put emcees to shame, the lyrical linguist
Spitting vintage, colloquial English
Like, 'who art thou? Bow to the ten inch dick
Sucketh it,' I'm the alpha-male of this shit
I'm the king of the pack, bringing it back
Tell the Queen of the pride to come sit on my lap
Her body is spotless, she ain't got one scratch
So you can keep them other ugly bitches in the back