The Palmer Squares - So You Think You Can Rap: Round 2 lyrics

[Verse 1: Acumental] I'm the antonym and opposite of happily incompetent Without a hint of pa**ive, only masterful predominance Never somnolent or inactive I stay on top of sh** This rapper from Chicago's quick to tamper with your documents CIA Operative clocking into work I drop it on the proper tip Now get your chompers on the curb So I can stomp 'em in Yea that's what happens when you trash talk I smash y'all, leavin' teeth scattered on the asphalt You're hesitating sheepishly I recently received a call to renovate the scene That y'all been desecrating heedlessly The message had a special way of reaching me Like Dennis Quaid in Frequency A featherweight defenestrating weak emcees Can't stop the flow Run taps on your phone I scam blocks for dough like Alphonse Capone It's the fatuous hooligan Actin' a fool with it Leave a young blood layin' on his back in a pool of it Ac is a lunatic I prove it on the regular Maneuver through communities Stupefy the neighborhood Yea I'm Daryl Dixon with the arrow b**h A parasitic pharaoh spittin' diction More sadistic than Deniro flicks No mountain high, no valley low, no river wide enough hold me down My inner child's been actin' grown We come together single file on Abbey road And pack a flow determined to redefine the status quo [Verse 2: Terminal Knowledge] Get a clue Try to speak a little truth But watch out Don't leave the scouts and the audience in disrepute I'm tired of bein' misconstrued And hiding in a pigeon coop Being listened to and admired by bewildered youths A tilted axis keeps the planet spinnin' Either that or it's the sk**ful tactics of a black magician Smile for the cameras Your society is cancer ridden Pathogenic Uncle Sam's devising him a cataclysm Hypothetic atom splittin's had us in Iraq about a decade And a few good men get paid for their bad decisions Got a scab? Then picket I down a can of spinach Shout "The government should tax the one percent!" Like that'll fix it I had a wish of rags to riches But sh**, any mathematician should be doubtful of the facts they're given Now would I rather have the knowledge and the gathered wisdom Or cash my chips in hollowed by a lavish living The latter's tempting but the former seems to fit me A loitering gypsy with a thrift store wardrobe We all have our limits But it's 'bout time I ignore the poor folk and dig for more gold Born to be bad The anti-Christian choir boy And all that I ask is that I pa** it to my pride and joy You're so unattached Get at me when you find your voice And I know how to rap So that sh** is beside the point