Metatron One - The Constructus Corporation

So uh… Who’s your target market here?

Ummm… Bitches.

Hard hitting

When I step to the mic and start spitting

Freaking motherfuckers like some suckers getting freaked by the preacher man

doing god’s bidding

Cry to the angels

The stars explode tonight

Metatron one I been known to get the job done

We on some intricate, intimate, innocent, infinite, inner-shit

If we start something we finish it, our ability is unlimited

Isn’t it, oh yes

I can process no less than a thousand thoughts Every one-tenth of a second

You still sitting on a see-saw

Our alien tech makes your g4 seem slow like Eeyore

You teach your computer to rap, I got light raining on my brain

Check these heads glued to the track all the night waiting for the train

My water-soluble, molly-coddled molecules submerge themselves deep inside a sea

of post-imaginative psyche

Where matter doesn’t matter then I materialize and come crashing into your

sphere

With a nice, juicy tongue-lashing for your ear

Metatron one I been known to get the job done

We enjoy an electronic, symbiotic existence between here and Avalon

While you babble on about Babylon always trying to get the battle on

Our little green lanterns illuminate a very, very vast sea

We see patterns mentally mutilated people can’t see

The lyrical spell-caster

Strapped with a fully stacked mystical, biblical hell-blaster

You mystified by the cyto while my ectoplasm is a much darker texture

As I reflect the effects of this evil architecture

Stunting our expansion, so I’m making sure that you feel this Like a man-made

phantom, psychosomatic illness

Only difference is this shit is as terminal as bad timing

Keep refining your vertical alignment till you reach my island

Metatron one I been known to get the job done

There’s no such thing as out of bounds

The death-walkers moving in and out of realms, electro-magnetic shields up

We always on-line, even when we catching shut-eye

Unfazed by restrictions inflicted by days gone by

I sit still as cast iron, watching my star-shine, exhaling for the last time

Deciphering ethereal material from imperial archives

Permanently upgrading my temporary hard-drive

The agents of the dark-side can’t hide

Plus their voodoo can’t find anyway to penetrate these calm minds

Like some self-imposed metaphysical apartheid

At the end of the day this beautifully maintained body’s not mine

That’s why I step to the mic and rock like I just dropped by

Metatron one I been known to get the job done