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Sa-Je - Mic Check lyrics

[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 sh** 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 f**ed 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 sh**

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 bullsh**
Of a sect to me, cause I ain't going infertile
Yeah, and I ain't all about the paper, mate
[Lyrics from: https:/]
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 a** 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 bullsh** from revvin' up
Cause it's the fans tryna jam that'll set 'em up
But they're just watered-down a**holes rapping
To me they're just anemones stuck in Eminem's enema

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 f**ing 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 f**ing mic yet

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