Toxified - Baba Brinkman

I really hate to do this to fakes, but the truth is

All it takes is two lips to make this music

And compose soundtracks to show how in fact

I know how to rap and got my flows down pat

I’m the best-kept secret, blessed to speak this

My breath crests the peak and gets swept beneath it

Like dust under the rug, like lust under the love

I trust when my number’s up, justice from above

Will curse every critic whose words get me livid

Diverse metaphysics as the earth steady pivots

On its axis, know what I mean?

I’m so keen

I can flow at the speed of a sewing machine

And stitch patches to fix rips, nicks and scratches

Then sit back and sip six packs of fatness

I got a little trouble with cholesterol level

But when the dust is all settled, the rest is all treble

It’s cocky hiphop

I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit

Rock the mic

In a din of adrenaline like winning a cock fight

And when it gets dropped the night’s toxified

I rip apart a track when I start to rap

Cardiac arrest, chest collapse, heart attack

I stress the coronary artery, the corollary

Coroner’s report said the tests were extraordinary

The autopsy shows what hiphop cost me

I couldn’t shut off the flow and just talk softly

And so instead of an out of court settlement

I chose to live and overdose on adrenaline

I’m forever blessed, my flesh is resurrected

Whenever I flex it’s like pleasure injected

A Sorcerer’s apprentice with swords of tempered steel

Mental skills' harder to ignore than a dentist’s drill

I rip mics toxified with nitrous oxide

And spit with lopsided lips in cyphers cross-eyed

I’m known to set the mood but don’t get it confused

'Cause I won’t let the juice alone until I set it loose

It’s cocky hiphop

I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit

Rock the mic

In a din of adrenaline like winning a cock fight

And when it gets dropped the night’s toxified

Rappers with flaccid erectile tissue

Get blasted with massive projectile missile

Like the mother of all bombs, nothin' but raw funk

Ruggedness locked on, what is it y’all want?

I’m at your service, when I rap so perfect

Serpents get served, then act so nervous

Like after raw sex with no contraceptive

I’m next on deck lookin' calm and collected

My life is about writin' each crisis out

Liftin' this mic to this mouth, and hypin' the crowd

Like electric voltage.

I get no kicks

From rejection notices, so neglected postage

Can’t stop my delivery, and when I talk busily

My style cannot really be clocked visibly

And so my flow seems like a ghost in the machine

That goes between what I say and what I’m supposed to mean

It’s cocky hiphop

I talk as if I’d never been taught to quit

Rock the mic

And when it gets dropped the night it toxified