Mic Check

[Verse 1] I try to progressively learn to make the best of my turn Upon this mic, because that light will make your recipe burn So I stay down to the Earth like I'm a freshly-grown turnip And I get turned up like the bottom of a bottle of syrup First, your only opposition should be positioned to opt out You got no shot, like Iguodala in the lockout I drop style to make your brain quickly crumble to acid mix Half of this shit ain't even a task, it's more an abacus Of technique, when I bless beats, you'd think it's magic But it's all about the years I spent and tactics for my practicing Which doesn't come naturally to White and Jewish rappers, see So now with every track I gets y'all buried like a daiquiri Uh, they try to tell me, "Jay, you'd probably be best If you cut out all the curses, spoke on good, and skipped the rest" And though I do appreciate advice from fam and friends You got me fucked if you think you know how I should self-express Yes, I'm never looking for the press Not because I can't obtain it, just because I'd hate the stress And I still spit the darts that come shooting from the dark And then get locked around your heart, call that cardiac arrest I didn't choose the game, I just saw the light Figured, "Hmm, my confidence could reach the tallest heights If I could spit raw, edit 'til it's altered right And then deliver out the science like I'm Walter White" Plus I can talk that lit like I was Walter Whit-- Man, you want a rapper with no faulty script And could make these other rappers nauseous sick Well then, put that together and I'm all that shit [Bridge] Hold up, hold up, hold up Yo Sa-Je Let me get a Mic Check [Verse 2] They call me Internal, and I used to go by "Jay" But call me "Dante" when I throw on this inferno You can't step to me or even try to bring that bullshit Of a sect to me, cause I ain't going infertile Yeah, and I ain't all about the paper, mate I'm about using papermates to give rappers I fatal fate You claim you'll father me? Hmm, well this just ain't the day Cause you and me related is more a cat in the cradle case My style's fire man, I'm burning when I hit the mic And you're just stuck on making matches like the fiddler's wife I give a little bite, with riddles, I'm no simple type My losing rate is like the republican fight for civil rights Surely I could rap about a fat sack But what fun is it to make my lyrics that whack? My favorite genre tried to take a catnap And in from the darkness crept these sad, babbling ass hats I attack, yeah I'm here Sat around too long, I got this idea It's time to give these emcees high fear Spitting raw, I'll start turning tables like I'm Ikea Riding 'round my neighborhood in mom's beat up corolla With a tube sock ego, taking sips of Pepsi-cola Everyone beware I'm trying angles for these squares X and O's get thrown in air like I'm a Playstation controller I'm a part-time baller, full-time liar With my hat turned around, rocking thrift shop attire My hobby's chance, yeah it's thinner than a wire Yet I still do it best, man, what more could you desire? Y'all need to stop all this bullshit from revvin' up Cause it's the fans tryna jam that'll set 'em up But they're just watered-down assholes rapping To me they're just anemones stuck in Eminem's enema [Outro] Yo sa-je, can I get a mic check? Yo Miggs, can I get a mic check? Sam Brown, can I get a mic check? Quise? Prez? Can I get a mic check? J.R., can I get a mic check? T.Y., can I get a mic check? AC Gang, can I get a mic check? Name one line where I ain't burn this fucking mic yet Can I get a mic check? Can I get a mic check? Can I get a mic check? Name one line where I ain't burn this fucking mic yet