Man I'm cooling off the vodka

It's going straight to my medulla oblongata

Shaking up my head like I'm chewing on maracas

Living in the life that be written by Franz Kafka

He opened up my chakras

It's so surreal how my mind be like a soccer field

I just kick it cryptically, my dome don the fitted these for centuries

I adventure these, lyrically searing your hearing

Bars walking tall cause they're made of manganese

Yeah I'm a metalhead I let my axe chop until the hat drops

Can't stop until I'm making level bread

That means loads of it so I can feed the family

That includes friends, friends of friends, and the faculty

Man I'm a hungry beast someone better shackle me

Before I tackle three of these pieces of Geez Louise skeezers

I don't mean to undermine you

I undermet you underground upsets that's trying to test the rhyme vessel

Call me the SS Lemars, got you hyper-hating

Bacon hyperventilating, seeing a mirage

It ain't for the greater good, or for my neighborhood

Look under my hood and you'll be seeing what the cause is

It's my machinery, it's just how they built me

They strapped me with so much artillery I could kill me

And I'm on self destruct, man, who you fucking with

When I blow up there better be some cover that you ducking with

Kabooming too soon like how I'm blooming too soon

Like how I'm zooming through tunes, the beats, the rhymes and the fumes

What's the plan, man, my rhymes are handstands

Going to the dome and blood flowing til you can't stand

But can't stand it, I know my fans demand it

And those fans that grow in the stands when I command it

To the stans, I'm jamming like a gun if you're the bandit

My music's quite different but you know they got to brand it

Man I dare you to grasp the way I rap over tracks

Or get the way I do laps around these wacker than thou rappers

Acting like house cats, shitting in a box

While I'm shifting in the box trying to make that shit knock

Man I'm not done, if I am knock a couple back

Until it's not fun, mouth like a single barrel shotgun

If I grow angry then I'm making that ricotta

And then I'll be the center like the number one blocker

Cause nothing's getting hotter than that dough up in my wallet

In fact it gets so hot it burns a hole in my pocket

Cause the fake me causing friction with the real me

Because in twilight my zone the infinite

Cyanide bye byes to yesterday's tie-dyes and high fives

All my styles last, man, I must be a nice guy

But in reality a wise guy

Rolling with the high profile wild and stylistic vice guys

I'm snide when I left myself slide through the cracks

Through the alley, out the scene and fade to black, sonny