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Tue March 19, 2019 06:42:39Login ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 12345678[9]10 ]

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Date Posted: 12:51:59 01/18/03 Sat
Author: MikMaQ
Author Host/IP: lah-m708-mac22.tees.ac.uk /
Subject: A keystlyle... because I haven't done one in a while...it's called "Ryhme disease"...please peep with imunity

I dig down with my trowel in the mud and hailshowers
throw in the towel ? Not until my heart turns sour
To overpower me bring your boys, maybe about five or six
You can take my pen if you can prize it from my kung fu grip
or my cold dead digits, I manage to stand before the carnage
of the modern day battle that rattles against my margins
I annotate my thoughts, make notes and prevoke revolt
against these cinematic rappers with their automatic quotes
I clap and applaud every single short that their selling you
Hell, you herbs deserve it if you bought the shit they telling you
My impulse is to feel a repulsion for these losers
I didn't choose this but it has me in convulsions like a user
I am that user, I am that junkie...
I have stole cake to feed that monkey
That rides my shoulders like the Grand National
the whipp that cracks extracts passion from me like it was natural
I can see the light, I've been down too many backroads to return to misery
I been there, done that and seen more images than a visionary
I'm still frustrated, what's a poor boy with nothing gonna do?
I'm poor like Fagan so I gots to pick a pocket or two
I render the heaven sent remedies onto my canvas
with Panza type kicks that hold stance thoughout my stanzas
Lance in hand I stampede like a thousand paced horses
that are black and white, passing fluently through "race courses"
I sit up till dawn and deliver ryhme in deliberation
gracefully with stucture's luxery of configuration
I'm a tortured individual with a tarnished equalibrium
I stress over every sylabal, no matter how trivial
I'm like a smilling news reporter with nothing to report to ya
but I'll contort thoughts into mortars that will abort ya
To try to outdo me is friutless and you'll come up shorter
It's useless like soluble water, your 'elevator' is out of order
I sit in ivory towers made from elephant tusks
with elegants sluts with swelling busts and delicate looks
Like Steve Urwin to an alligator ripping him up
Like a medievel gladiator with iron uppercuts
So pose for your portrait, I'll slap that smile off your face
and depict you with grace as you taste my fist in your face
Or my bitter scriptures or one of my pointless keys
that are important to me because of all the shit they free
I find the floor with my knees and look upwards with pleas
Even the seven seas could'nt wash away this rhyme disease

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