nice shot - close but no stogie
bogey on six and he twist like a yogi
this little Mowgli was raised by cyborgs
in cyclopean cities that made my eye sore
IV drains the vein's divine ichor
zygote, bacilli and cilia i'd die for
divide by four, decant and knock it back
chase it with a lime and then if we can, we're walking back
now my mind races like car chases
or Scarfaces smashing rocks against hard places
that sure makes my choice easy
the god blood burps making my voice greasy
until i get wheezy all caught up in the Rhyme Circus
spitting till i'm dumb and then i still deliver mime verses
i spend breath like it's perversion until the climax is felt
it's my version of choking myself with a belt
noblesse oblige is hopeless
hoping and praying won't evoke dopeness
i do no less and no more than i have to
and maybe occasionally take a bath too
but every time i do i'm interrupted by eureka moments
never met another who was not a weak opponent
dontcha get it? Marcus see a moment and he live in it
fuck all of the ticking clocks who really think he give a shit
and i could sing a song of honour courage and persistence
but mostly I admit I take the path of least resistance
and i could sing a song of electricity and fingertips
but mostly i admit i only pick the chick with bigger hips
and lips and telltale rips in her satin slips
and makes frequent freudian ones, never annoyed by puns
i've been talking a lot, it's getting hot in here, you feel it, yeah?
or maybe it's just me and my autovoxaphilia

i just aint got no choice
I love the sound of my own voice
i love the sound of your voice too
let's drown out all those other fools
who's spitting nothing worth attention
shout 'em down without a mention
they so quiet we so loud
and I really love the sound

i just aint got no choice
I love the sound of my own voice
i love the sound of your voice too
let's drown out all those other fools
who's wasting breath on empty words
have you listened have you heard
even with all of this noise
I love the sound of my own voice

i hope my spine don't crack
'cause i'll be spitting till my eyes roll back
and i go blind as a bat and be fine with that
as long as i can still listen to my rhyme flow
and wonder where the time go
just put the mic in my hand or get me to the stand
slip a twenty to the band
tell 'em anything fucked up ought a do the trick
turn the kick drum up and make the bass line sick
it's the base by which I calibrate my pitch
and i take my pick though fate might bitch
in the circus, entering the centre ring
say hello to Marcus, better than just about everything
spitting on the jerryrigged Serf-tech rocket
asked him for a beat and he checked his pockets
full of witch doctor concoctions that'll make you ill
[blended only by experts with great skill]