Prince Rai
12-24-2008, 02:35 PM
Lyric and Prince Rai
Commercial MC’s graciously rewarded,
Magnificent word play lost in the static so easily distorted.
What is real hip-hop is now called underground.
Warriors with sharp swords like mole people can be found seven layers underground.
Main stream sent over blind, deaf, and dumb’s broadcast.
Even flames sent from the heavens burn out quick and the heat doesn’t last.
Nine generals walk the earth but under them sleeps an army.
Waiting for the fad to end so they can arise quick but calmly,
People from the surface ask if it’s an occult they have.
One general quick to respond no they are all with families and don’t call us dad.
Beneath the surface everyone knows of the walking dead.
How each sword doubles as a shovel, we are warriors second and gravediggas first instead.
But some victims so far gone, no eyes, no ears and no tongues.
No mind to save so they are terminal, drop the head and the body will follow.
Like barn animals the people of the surface love to wallow.
The time will come not in mine but maybe that of my seeds.
The Golden age after the dark where mainstream once again belongs to the real MC’s
The golden dawn of real MC's draws closer
as the sword draws itself slicing against the air in all corners,
Section 9 warriors march through this underdeveloped area,
our sting so viscious it kills like maleria,
Poor righteous teachers are never confined to the smaller masses
but the multitude of worlds that keep disappearing into thin air,
the monumentals of my mind floats on top of water
unlike the might of Atlantis trapped under water,
word play like Picasso,
my brain hot like lava, watch the steam shoot out of my ears,
i stand upright and exact, and drum my chest like bears,
i never shy of challenges, cos' i guarantee my own win against any challengers,
well versed and educated, i keep you ill-informed and over-medicated,
hit your head with my right fist sized like a boulder,
and carve you skull into my only ink pen holder,
Lyric and Prince Rai, briefly terrorising this sector.
Peace
Commercial MC’s graciously rewarded,
Magnificent word play lost in the static so easily distorted.
What is real hip-hop is now called underground.
Warriors with sharp swords like mole people can be found seven layers underground.
Main stream sent over blind, deaf, and dumb’s broadcast.
Even flames sent from the heavens burn out quick and the heat doesn’t last.
Nine generals walk the earth but under them sleeps an army.
Waiting for the fad to end so they can arise quick but calmly,
People from the surface ask if it’s an occult they have.
One general quick to respond no they are all with families and don’t call us dad.
Beneath the surface everyone knows of the walking dead.
How each sword doubles as a shovel, we are warriors second and gravediggas first instead.
But some victims so far gone, no eyes, no ears and no tongues.
No mind to save so they are terminal, drop the head and the body will follow.
Like barn animals the people of the surface love to wallow.
The time will come not in mine but maybe that of my seeds.
The Golden age after the dark where mainstream once again belongs to the real MC’s
The golden dawn of real MC's draws closer
as the sword draws itself slicing against the air in all corners,
Section 9 warriors march through this underdeveloped area,
our sting so viscious it kills like maleria,
Poor righteous teachers are never confined to the smaller masses
but the multitude of worlds that keep disappearing into thin air,
the monumentals of my mind floats on top of water
unlike the might of Atlantis trapped under water,
word play like Picasso,
my brain hot like lava, watch the steam shoot out of my ears,
i stand upright and exact, and drum my chest like bears,
i never shy of challenges, cos' i guarantee my own win against any challengers,
well versed and educated, i keep you ill-informed and over-medicated,
hit your head with my right fist sized like a boulder,
and carve you skull into my only ink pen holder,
Lyric and Prince Rai, briefly terrorising this sector.
Peace