Circulate (100 Bars)

ST. . . Termanology. . . J DIlla. I circulate the papes My mind state concentrate on the paper chase With good rates on the weight no seed or shave Hennessey to the face don’t need to chase My enemies I erase out my mind frame My style caine on the beat, I step like ten deep That S and then T, don’t sweat the technique That’s me, repping that ST (unh) Went on a brief chase, stashing my briefcase Hash on my weed’s laced, flashing my deep crates Like Flex, but I flex album release dates So damage a beat tapes sampling beat breaks I check with a weak fake rapper diseased snakes That ran through the beat game, wacker with each tape They try to destroy the game with that noise And blame the bad boys, like Puff the same choice to suck And make corny rap with shiny suits for loot And pollute the booth with that music Losin’ the truest of art in confusion Do I wanna lie— or give you the truth Do I wanna fry— or ride in Lex coupes Let’s choose. I be on the Henny and juice Grey Goose make you loose with the tongue So I’m real enough to tell you ain’t nobody doin’ shit where I’m from Like even my own sons they owe me a fortune I said when it’s all done they’ll know I am The One So crucify me, try and design me And your mind is being grimy, the one you should probably Try and snake for his papes, you can’t get nothing by me If you did it feel special, cause homie I let you I’m a street nigga, which means I done been broke It don’t mean I shot a nigga every day that I woke It don’t mean I slang coke every day though I did For a good amount of time, then I had me a kid Looked myself in the mirror, like ‘son you could sit up In the bing doing sit ups in a box with them killers Or you could reconsider, calm down with the liquor Brush the coke off the scale, throw that shit up in the river' How could I go hard without seeing po cars Just trying to doze off, feds trying to Bogart My life is trife but I’m destined to know God So I don’t give a fuck if they hit me with no charge I’m destined to be what I’m destined to be So if I’m stretching these beats so effortlessly And I make it look easy like the homie ED Stuff the baked ziti, fuck the HPD Puff the gray seedless dutch with hay steaming My eyes gleaming, I’m straight leaning Welcome to another level when I am MCing I’m Rakim, LL, and I’m Kool G in A blender with a semiautomatic four-fever And a stole Visa, divas catch beatings Cheeba roll trees, the green is so mean and Nothing like a joke, I smoke that homegrown Want that funky cold medina, fuck with Term-lo Lo. . . now fuck around and get smoked I come with a razor dripping with AIDS to fuck your face up I got the pistol laid up haters better hit the gym up Invest in a vest, the best of the best The recipe just: mix a little cut with the fish I’m a insane spitter, and I run with them caine dealers Old school spitters say I remind them of Caine nigga Politically, analytically I am physically Every bit of a real MC, trilogy after trilogy Millimeters to kill MCs willing niggas on MTV And leaving bodies in the trees. . . with the fleas Gimme any beat, I’m burying you bastards Plastic bag rapper, save money on the casket Homie, I get shady like Cassius Get them bullets out, Tom Brady type fashion I ain’t in the whip, Mercedes all flashing I be in the hood where the .380s is blasted Mashing, while they call me the truth Y’all dudes is hardcore, just not in the booth I’m the supercalifragilistic rich spic With hits like Will Smith, my chick a bit schiz But man, she suck dick, lips and big tits Like pam, the sick scripts I write is all night Like my nigga Joe— thank God for that whiiiite! Motherfucker, damn right I keep goin’ with deep flowin’ like each poem Was written by niggas in the pen Straight blowin’ they time in confinement The sirens are blind they try and combine us With shine and define us as gangsters and riders With shanks into violence, we face any problems With fakes and vaginas The holes in the loot get you holes in the suit Where it’s told to the troops never fold or we shoot Just explode in the booth like your flows is the truth If you flow for the loot then you’ve chosen the route Of the evil, conniving deceitful despising These creeps that be lying the beef they reside in The bling that they buying, they sing for the diamonds Is weak and I’m dying for cheeks that ain’t mine I creeping and sighing, floating through Baghdad My shoes flying at Bush faster than Arabs Cash in my safe has gone for a paycheck As small as a paint chip off of my tape deck I rhyme with a straightjacket and a face mask And I ain’t finished til I bodied every beat Jay has Dilla.