Yeah just chillin to this beat so I got to writing
From my blood to my bone to the flesh that makes up my complexion.
I'm flowin into the mic wit perplexion, you can question my plots.
But suggestion or not, the thoughts are congested with the knowledge i've got.
Intelligent emcees, a dyin breed, the beast alive in me tries to feed.
On the conscience with the rhymes i speak, til it dies or sleeps.
This demon inside of me is caged to the page.
With the bars that i write. my heart on a mic.
Isn't far outta sight, but my brain is hard at work.
24 7 365 to write a verse, this hip hop is my life.
So burry me wit a mic, cuz once i go it'll be my grave yard.
But til my casket drops, i'mma be at this pad.
Spittin any design that i have, in my cerebral cortex.
Got the record spinnin as i'm spittin so twisted it's a vortex.
Cuz i'm defined by these rhymes you see me write to speak.
I can't be anything other than what i am an emcee a dyin breed.