The M-A-D-D, the M-A-X-X
Express himself on a turntable deck set
Expect the comp to be eyeing the EX-IT
I exist for fists to wrap around mic necks
My guess, anyone who step get their head wrecked
Dead set on proving we’re the best your headset
God said, ‘ya wanna lot skill?”, I said, “YES”
Don’t Test, your arms too short plus your brainless
And somebody lied if they said it be painless
We can’t miss, drafting up a new rap language
Slang which’ll leave nitwits with a brain glitch
Train with the Hardrock Alliance, we’re dangerous
And came with more sci-fi than the matrix
Maxx mix records way pass the BAY-SICS
When he make the beat…he keep the bass thick
And I got a flow whether slow or the pace quick
To fans I spread love, MC’s? I’ll take six
Line em up, rhyme ruff, make it crime scene
Hit em with dope line, make em a rhyme fiend
I lean deep in the beat when I speak
I write, recite, review, then I tweak
Switch words, fix plotholes, and truncate
Then wonder…how much weight can the drums take?
Some say hard work work like a runway
So far, no good, perhaps, one DAY
Monday to Sunday we sharpen skills
Art instills the mind with a harden will
But harder still, the love is so fleeting to feel
Still I build, it’s all about completing the drill
And just keep on rhyming till percussion is done
No question who won, when going one on one with the drum
