[Verse 1: Playdough]

Heads rush and faces blush with the stroke of my brush

While you was choking in clutch with every toke of the dutch

My word was spoken in such mannerism milking the prism

For some living colored talent

Filling my palette with words and pastels

You rent with the track tells

Just to pupil learning lessons and blessing the Maxell's

It's like I'm Leonardo Divinc of quarter inch

Just a starving artiste who's at peace with stomach pinch

So clenched his right hand, direct to the mic stand

Spot the mediocre joker then clash like titans

To find the cure I'm avoiding the last mile

Man, your silly wack styles only worth a half smile

I'd burn it in graf style, make you respect my mural

Then remember the name of Playdough, though your referral

I probably won't receive 'cause I cloak my sleeve

Inside the plans of the carpenters hands

What I believe is perceived as weakness

Though they couldn't beat this

I just cover mediocrity with strokes of neatness

And I etch in the stone, my name next to some scriptures

It's Playdough, my words worth a thousand pictures

[Verse 2: Jax]

Imagine the time spent to make your bare perfect

To comprehend, this rattle roll chest

Leave myself though my many chrome brush

A palette of words dust a canvas suburb

More balance ease or tease the artist

Whose heart is open for all to view

With a track I lose track of all thought of space and time

And visualize a rhyme to manifest

Many a masterpiece remains are framed or ashamed

To be living from the others on display

Take a gaze at legendary status living unlavish, Jax

Tears you'll sow, a missile blow, ricochet while gulls ration

Unlucky receiver of bleeping speed knot

Courtesy of the biggest rep

Official response of original cons of concepts

With in-depth type grip on how to do it correct

As ill as the sound is how ill it really is

Thoughts brought forth resemble only a few

And far between is the amount of the whiffs from me to you

[Verse 3: Lil Sci]

The black artist painting visual pictures through rhyme scriptures

I write distinct ink styles, verbally capture images

Yes, I'm an artist so don't try to tell me how to paint my picture

I'm hip-hop results in the streets like violence and malt liquor

My few points stay outtellectual of course

Share my thoughts with those that are lost

Searching for dignity, I vibe like A as ubiquity

I'm Stevie wonder lyrically

Y'all still trying to figure me like ancient Egyptian mysteries

Hmmmmmm hip to the hop, don't to the stop

So whys radio playing all this nonsense around the clock

(Who knows?) I suppose it's the negative verse positive balance

Challenging the masses, putting image before talent

Yeah, that's why you never see my face on the cover

Scienz of life by child discovered the art of living

Pictures I paint now are stories for my grandchildren

So my empire never stops building, can't you see it

[Verse 4: ManCHILD]

It ain't no joke, id like to choke this world to die in perfect harmony

But I'll start, do my part for the art to educate my colony

Come follow my odyssey, its entertaining, I swear solemnly

You can stare into my oddities, you can shutter at the thought of me

The thought of y'all collectively keeps me up most nights in a cold sweat

Bite my tongue at times since inside it holds death

Strike a delicate balance between solitude and challenge

Raw skill and developed talent, a gentle hand and sharp talons

While poverty plays the lottery and gambles with lives of people

Wins and losses are correctly identified as necessary evils

Agnostics paint themselves in the blood of the prophets

Falling in love with the darkness with a plot to steal the dawn

And I'll slash this canvas camp off fall victim to cash advances

Set myself in battle stances take my chances in Atlantis

Where my artistry dwells, somewhere between heaven and hell

In-between subliminal street sounds and critical beat downs

I'm one of the few who follows through with intimidation

When I spit its like I'm letting heads in on inside information

When I'm long gone this world will recognize my accomplishments

How I sit at home and draft these blessed memos to my congressmen

Begin with raw material, paint moral and average model

Craving generic works of art with my heart for you tomorrow

My pen strokes express life and death, poetry and rhythm

Grip the mic so tight that I'm developing carpal tunnel syndrome

And honestly, I prefer to create my masterpieces sonically

Crush hard rocks with my voice box, but I guess that's just the God in me

Probably, they release my anthology

All apologies for my broken rotary phone-I just don't hear destiny callin' me

So for now, these 4 move forward to mic mastery

Some day display my book of rhyme pages up in your gallery

Playdough, Jax, Sci, manCHILD a spoken masterpiece

And someday, display this Mona Lisa in your gallery