Fine Art

[Verse 1: Last Emperor] The world as we know it, it is a vast illusion More than a passive poet, I am the last solution The master of magic music, ambassador of execution Of rappers I've yet to shoot them, I catch and electrocute them His highness of flyness if fly is what you're into Some rappers dropping science, and some be popping pistols Some rappers preach the gospel, if preaching's what you're into Then I am an apostle, and these are my a-pistols, listen The stylist the server, the real rap preserver Champion, black barbarian and berber Injury from my symphony, the melody is murder Public enemy of chemistry, the energy converter Feed me through intravenous, my veins full of Valvoline Straight shots of gasoline chase em with kerosene I boil beat breaks and eat cakes made with nicotine Cry tears of Listerene and piss Mr. Clean! T-L-E the human power converter And if the rhyme is a crime y'all should charge me for murder Last Emp, approach the stand and cross-examine em further.. As I march through the hood with my imperial posse Some rappers show me love, a couple of sucka's despise me If assassins happen to hit me don't even revive me After I'm long gone, this is how you describe me, listen Here lies the first, last, his character's first class Symbol of perfection, complexion, colour of burnt brass With the superb task to emerge and to surpass the average A shadowy figure from earths past With four braids that hang down on my shoulders When I fight they come to life and strike like four black cobras Put an end to this, I'm venomous, and your rap's over Many men have surrendered, The Emp is a pro black soldier, I told ya I'm the combination of prophecy and mere chance I'm the combination of old bottles and beer cans A black cowboy, and a tuskegee airman AM or FM you can check me on clearband yo Loud and clear your transmission confirmed Understand my position you should listen and learn Three initials it's official yes the sith has returned From the cradle to the grave, incubator to the respirator From the birth of Anakin to the death of Vader The decibel desecrator, unethical escalator Purveyor of weapons now rotating on your record player Sprayer of rapid fire, spit like Vesuvius Lyrically hardcore and a star wars enthusiast Hip cats say the Emp's raps are the grooviest Peace to cypress hill, house of pain and funkdoobiest An author, a poet, a mathematician Research scientist and a lab technician In high school I was voted the man with vision The most likely to leave rappers in a bad condition Listen I know some have visions of overthrowing the Emp Many believe that they can see me, it was only a glimpse I repeated I'm never conceited I'm only convinced That my status is that of a black ethiopian prince and since Here's another one to fall under the rhyme charts Your style's weak, it already peaks where mine starts This is The Last Emps contribution to fine arts