Curriculum 101

Forensic psychologist Samuel Dubious explains //
“You’ll probably never understand Germaine” //
Incoherent speeches, puzzles in pieces //
The sub-chemical deepness of his glandular excretions //
Realms of Heaven and Hell //
Glowing angelic gel spliced with bovine leukemia cells //
Demons in Hell, they call to me //
I scream, “What can you offer me?” //
They reply, “Techno-Sorcery” //
They tell me the meek will never inherit the world //
Cause they’re weak, standing on two twelve inch feet //
I dream quasi Draconian dreams when I sleep //
Peyote leaves mixed with the blood of a priest //
In a room where the ceiling leaks of crimson grease //
Where the living eats the dead, and the dead reek //
Rock bottom transforms human beings to beasts //
Why the fuck you think we’ve got canine teeth? //
It’s the optical stimuli of watching men cry //
I hope I’ve got time to repent before I die //
Bury me at the beach if the sea is out of reach //
Cause when I speak what’s fluid becomes concrete //
Like a falcon up in the sky, ten thousand feet //
Looking down at you bitches looking at me //
Phase shifting at forty-five degrees //
I’m too crooked to see, I memorize the books that I read //
Sucking from the breast of knowledge constantly weaning //
Unbeseemingly a genius without meaning //
Try to visualize what Harry Houdini was feeling //
Handcuffed under water without breathing //
Near death on a fatal quest for air //
But why should anyone care? He put himself there //
His career was based on facing his fears //
To take destiny from the hand of the man upstairs //
He didn’t mind the cold stares he got from his peers //
They couldn’t tell him where he was going or how to get there //
It’s better to be prepared and fail //
Than to be scared and unsure of yourself and still get killed //
Don’t rhyme like I used to but I still got skills //
More than a couple confirmed kills under the belt //
Hunting emcees is like hunting elk //
Camouflaged in the dense brush for stealth, determined as hell //
I don’t do this for anybody except myself //
Stuff a motherfucker like a trophy on my shelf //
Fuck the promo nigga I do this for dolo //
Flow from the first hour to twenty-four-oh-oh //
Round the clock as long as I’ve got a cup of cocoa //
But I’ll be a no-show if my girl cries, “Don’t go!” //
And she gives me blow more than two times in a row //
I’d rather chill with her than kill you with a rhyme that I wrote //
Count how many mics I’ve smoked, minus the G.O.A.T. //
‘Bus is dope, my battling average is higher than most //
When I’m on the Mic I release fire from throat //
If you disagree please do it quietly folks //
Anybody better than ‘Bis must be a hoax //
Black man? No! What about the ‘Great White Hope?’ //
What? Man you must be sniffing great white coke //
Don’t you know that’s like Gary Coleman fighting the Hulk? //
Still not even quite that close, a great white biting your rubber dingy boat //
Fifty miles out from the coast //
What the fuck is the Mathers with you? //
I’ll beat you black and blue then I’ll get a tat of you too //
Better yet I’ll put a tattoo of me on you //
A ten by ten ‘C’ logo, neon blue //
The most theatrical emcee battle of all time //
I rip jackers like you; you know my call sign //
Killer cobras that hover over Jehovah //
In motorized auto-giros with sycamore rotors //
Hydrogen-peroxide gaseous vapors //
Technically these words shouldn’t even rhyme off paper //
In theory, for every soul that can hear me, I’ma blaze them //
In practical practice my style’s even greater //
Can’t you see what I’m spitting? Can’t you hear the difference? //
Compared to me you’re energetically inefficient //
You need ten times the enzymes to process one of my rhymes //
You’ve got to rewind every one of my lines //
Do you know how to paraphrase? //
Do you even understand what the narrator is trying to say? //
The climax explodes; nobody can foreshadow my flow //
Figuratively the language is too dope //
Academic journals print my lyrical quotes //
They show parallelism in all the albums I wrote //
On any track I come off strong automatically //
Whether I write in an active or passive capacity //
Poetry that I spit is synonymous to a glyph //
Written on tablets of clay mortar mix //
Superb, truly superb! Analyze the words //
It’s like observing the birds fly above the earth //
The Eye of Horus, the miniature torii within a giant torus //
With singularity on the chorus, I still sound enormous //
Borderline insanity trying to break through humanity’s border //
With a new curriculum every quarter //
I’m the porter to the portal of the Secret Mic-Club Order //
Baptize you with Jamaican white rum and water //
If you’ve got a hundred bars then I know you’re a warrior //
I’ll be the one who awards you and pins the medal on you //
Dedicate a song to you because now you’re honorable //
You want a record deal? //
Explain the lyrical grand unified field so I can test your skill //
Do it in front of the class, chart diagram it //
And write it in Latin, not Spanish god damn it //
Step back so I can look at it, (Speaking in Latin) //
Huh? What the fuck is that wack shit? //
You’re clumsy and dumb like a hand with five thumbs //
Welcome to Mic-Club – Curriculum 101 //