[Intro Verse 1 -Apathy ]
Yeah! Apathy, L da Headtoucha, J-Live, Esoteric...
Yo
Yo, I'm like Bruce Lee, swingin' nunchucks
Nice with mic checks
You young bucks receive tongue f**s and sliced necks
Precise like a sniper with a heat scope
You choke, like a teens first toke of weed smoke
I leave you broke like a weak rope that's tied to a speedboat
Waterskiing over in a peacoat
And all my tight flows tend to offend you
Gay pussies like dyke jokes for uptight white folks
Those who bite flows soon as I write those
Are cursed in the verse to stumble over the typos
I strike foes with the right blows
To make you flip like I'm shoving the mics between your bike spokes
So if you imitate, mimic or simulate
I'll make your life shorter than the songs on a snippet tape
I spit it great to finish miniature fakes and diminish your pace
Like roadblocks for prison breaks
[Verse 2 - L the Headtoucha]
Till my releases
Something to leave a n***a speechless
To each his own, homes, 'ricans all through the speakers
When I rhyme, time freezes
You better off to look and find jesus
See crime teaches
Spit divine thesis
Good luck with the dime
Got you up against the the rucker rhyme
Mister rap a lot, twist the rhythm half a knot
Cross the map I got, bigger math to plot
Herbs have to rock, y'all ain't half as hot
Still stuck on how this rapper got
To the moon like f**ing astronauts
Think your god now? Perhaps your not
Ima smack your knot and take back your thought
Dozens of herbs will observes this sound
Unfamiliar to some from a land unfound
We rep the ground til the last round
Step past clowns with central ma** sounds (??)
What you don't know? Ask around. Ski mask down
Get around to ruin your name
Headtoucha motherf**er
Still true in the game
[Verse 3 - Esoteric]
Ya'll ain't worthy of war
I'm grimy like the dirtiest floor
Im murdering y'all, brigade herbs to the core
I bring slaughter
You cats flavourless like spring water
King Arthur with the rhymes harder than
Mings daughter, I'm Flash Gordon
Fresh out the box of my black Jordans
Raps scorching cats on the track
Author slash mad swordsman
You taking about graff, and how you keep reppin' sh**
But you got a jeopardy's contestants penmanship
MCs look up to me like Extra P looks up to Paul C
Y'all see em, lethal and cerebral like palsy
Phoney gangsters leave your lungs a break
That ain't chrome that's silicone, your guns are fake
And in this indie industry I'm what you call a model citizen
I got the discipline and position and conditioning
The terrorists and the police are both listening
That's why the feds trying to wet my like I'm at a Christening
[Verse 4 - J-Live]
Ay yo, it's J that L-I, who the hell am I?
Above average Joe with a likewise flow
The underground give me love for my lyrical wit
As the type of MC not to be not f**ed with
I got my money on the means to expand my mind
I got my mind on more than the money which means
I ain't trying to make a living selling dreams to fiends
I'm out to see the young world living past 18
When you fantasize millions instead of the long green (?)
f** a Lear jet, I'm trying to push an F-18
Drop a smart bomb on folks that don't see what I mean
Load the spot, barrel roll out and then flee from the scene
I'm thinking long range, the only thing constant is change
And yet still, my lyrics leave a permanent stain
On the mind of all those who are insulting the name
J-Live, 99, still true to the game. What?