Observe the Sound

[Intro Verse 1 -Apathy ] Yeah! Apathy, L da Headtoucha, J-Live, Esoteric... Yo, I'm like Bruce Lee, swingin' nunchucks, slicin' mic checks You young bucks receive tongue fucks and slice necks Precise like a sniper with a heat scope You choke like a teens first toke of weed smoke I leave you broke like a weak rope that's tied to a speedboat Waterskiing open in a peacoat And all my tight flows tend to offend you Gay pussies like dyke jokes for uptight white folks Those might blow(?) as soon as I write those Curse in the verse and stumble over the typos I strike foes with the right blows To make you flip like I'm sticking the mic between your bike spokes So if you imitate, mimic or simulate I'll make your life shorter than the songs on this flippin' tape I spit it great to finish miniature fakes and diminish your plates Like roadblocks for prison breaks [Verse 2 - L the Headtoucha] My releases will leave a nigga speechless To each his own, homes, 'ricans all through the speakers When I rhyme, time freezes You better off to look and find jesus See crime teaches Spit divine thesis Good luck with the dime Got you up against the the rucker rhyme Mister rap a lot, twist the rhythm half a knot Cross the map I got, bigger math to plot Herbs have to rock, y'all ain't half as hot Still stuck with how this rapper got To the moon like fucking astronauts Think your god now? Perhaps your not Ima smack your knot and take back your thought Dozens of herbs will observes this sound Unfamiliar to some from a land unfound We rep the ground til the last round Step past clowns with central mass sounds (??) What you don't know? Ask around. Ski mask down Get around and ruin your name Headtoucha motherfucker Still true to the game [Verse 3 - Esoteric] You ain't worthy of war I'm grimy like the dirtiest floor Im murdering y'all, we're grinding herbs to the core I bring slaughter You cats are flavourless like spring water King Arthur with the rhymes harder than Mings daughter from Flash Gordon Price tag still on the box of my black Jordans Rap scorcher ??? Mad swordsmen You taking about grav, and how you keep reppin' shit But you have a jeopardy's contestants penmanship MCs look up to me like Extra P looks up to Paul C Y'all see, I'm lethal and cerebral like palsy Phoney gangs should give your lungs a break That ain't chrome that's silicone, your guns are fake And in this indie industry I'm what you call a model citizen I got the jizza (?) and position and conditioning The terrorists and the police are both listening That's why the feds try to wet my like I'm at a Christening [Verse 4 - J-Live] Ay yo, it's J that L-I, who the hell am I? Above average Joe with a likewise flow The underground give me love for my lyrical wit As the type of MC not to be not fuck with I got my money on my means to expand my mind I got my mind on more than my money which means I ain't trying to make a living selling dreams to fiends I'm out to see the whole world living past 18 When you fantasize millions instead of the long green (?) Fuck a Lear jet, I'm trying to push an F-18 Drop a smart bomb on the folks won't see what I mean Load the spot, barrel roll out and then flee from the scene I'm thinking long range, the only thing constant is change Yet still, my lyrics leave a permanent stain On the mind of all those who are insulting the name J-Live, 99, still true to the game. What?