It’s something I can’t get away from. It’s a pulse. It’s a mechanism.
It’s a list of words and challenges. It’s a specific rhythm. It’s how some people love your art and never about those that don’t.

Blood sweat and tears, green bud, sex and beers
Fighting brotherly to fighting other peers
Noise settles nicely into each and every nook
Whether its’ the neat and clean or fit for a crook
Or even crook catcher with crotch piece and cape
Only Bob Ross could out stroke the landscape
Now where are those happy little trees?
My stellar raw rhyme, van dyke brown emcees
I’m shitting on ‘em, Did you see what I did there?
Open up and let underneath your lid peer
Buck mow (mau-), bug ‘em out like a cartoon
Like the first time music made your longing heart swoon
So choosy about your sound you think it’s so choice
Swear if you could get it out the whole scene’ll rejoice
But nah, you’re lame and sound like a drone
So indistinct you should prolly leave the mic alone
Chorus: Beautiful brush strokes, I’ll kill you
You aint shit, look at your production
And all the empty rows you should’ve had ducks in
You Teddy Rukspin, you could never pull a care bear
I’m taller in pictures and have a debonair stare
Install these scriptures, at times have a rare square
No joking or smoking, unless you had some spare gear Cos I don’t want you in on my daily ration
The way you carrying on in such fashion
Hype is hype, and then there’s looking like an ass
If you care to gripe, I’m at a level you can’t surpass
Notebook is special care, words get more attention
You’s a tool, I thought you’d try and throw a wrench in Ahoy matey, but only pirates drive my nuts
See what I did there, the wit never falls in ruts
Know no gorges, could stop a flow so gorgeous
Noise is no mess, with rhymes so enormous