The West Is...

The West coast is blowin up The new innovators of style, but there's more to be uncovered From the undiscovered regions of this sector Addin to the circulations of monumental demos This should definitely be stamped sure shot produce LIKE THIS! [Verse One] Yo whassup man to the rooftop runners The one that's with the bass got some puff for your soul Plus the heavy meditator still jottin down ditties but wait An equal sum, T-mass in elevational speak The vocal bloom while my signal was tuned Dissect, my set level to a hoverous form Then release, to the ear, while I watch my spirit travel See the evil dissapear like an atomless math Through the U.N.I., which infinity is I Where my energy is based, see I got a fat sack of space I toned it down for a recharge of tone Then I threw it my sack, cause my travels are wild Plus a power that'll read through a wearer's disguise Through an MC form I walks, as a normal man But my estimated time of the regular digestion of a verb Stems days uncountable to many As a being from beyond, cuttin wax, as I break the many forms Through a total mad account for myself Spittin logic through a relay of words that might burn Through a century two-ways it's clear to the eyes Then project, with approximate, greetings that's slow Calculated to an intricate find, and disembody that Photo type place whenever rhyme with the one True original phrase of words flowin with the page that's written [Verse Two] As I blast, the last dash of my lyrical gas I pass, a regular MC path, break them before me How uneasy, to be the MC like B But you know how we do this when we give U.S.C Or A.S.T., it's not me to speak in stutter My lyrics break fast, like bread and butter I utter, another style, meanwhile child I profiles The funky-ass hip-hop makes you wanna break for the mic and freestyle Uhh, but these styles ain't free I feel the fatness on this track, the bass frequencies Take over me, damage ya with my freaky freaky flow Catch wreck, check ya neck, I come clean in ya speakers bro Or sis, be you mister or miss If you need flavor and funk in your life Sugar's what you missed Uhh, it's not good, not Nutrasweet nor a suplement A shot of the props, leavin suckers stuck in detriment UHH! [Interlude] The West Is.. "Bout to blow the fuck up" The West Is.. ?? The West Is.. ?? The West Is.. "The place to be" The West Is.. "down" "And I'll tell you why in just a moment" "And now ladies and gentlemen" {*scratched repeatedly*} [Verse Three] Here's a sure shot take from the ground techniques Of my speak, blowin from the West Era ninety-three is how we hit up the sticker I glance at my ticker, it's time To blow the text out my throat and get the oohs and ahhs Of a applause and defeats, it gets my stand It's how I, learned to be an MC So take this tape, and put it witcha tape And love it like ya breaks all smothered in the hiss And plates of paper, to hold it all up And I can give a fuck about a industry appeal But watch 'em all steal this style, and blow the fuck up Usin my shit {*miscellaneous scratches*} [Verse Four] Right, right, right Niggas doin all that screamin, but really don't know shit doe You see, if rap were a tree Then my knowledge would bear fruits And if rap ever falls, then I guess I'd be a parachute If rap was the news Then me, I'd be the commentary And if rap were a fine bitch Then I'd be Halle Berry! If rap were a three and two pitch Then I'd be wild Strikin out MC's, chokin up on my style