Don Cook - Art of the Beat lyrics

[Verse 1] I can understand from looking out from the side That I can come off little goofy when I shout in the mic But otherwise, it's recreation, nothing more than a guy That's hating ways of self-behaving, lately, maybe it's the time To give 'em all a little taste of patience, "Hey, it's a song!" Well wait until the day that comes along that everyone's wrong Cause I've been chasing it away, the stage is basically gone You paved the way, so why you hating on caucasian so far? It never used to be an issue on the football field Or shootin' hoops, up at the school and askin' 'who's all here?" You let me drift with the crowd and I was happy as sh** Cause I had never fit in situations, tacky as this And every time I sat in math again, I'd chat with the chicks And who'da thought I coulda' done with the cla** that I did? But then again, I have regrets about my stint as a clown Cause I annoyed the living hell up outta kids that surrounded me, now [Hook] What you wanna see from a kid like me? Who never grew up on the streets up in the NYC But literally, when I speak, I wanna make it in the world And ain't no living way or day that I'mma waste it on a girl Now understand I never, ever, ever wanted to see Me go and turn it into something, make me wander so deep To see the key of the tone, I wonder how I'm gonna be? Defeated, come along to thinkin' bout the art of the beat, and so.. [Verse 2] I'ma keep it runnin' till I empty the tank I put my foot on the gas, and then I'll rip out the brake Cause when I crash I wanna take it, I'll be able to say That I had faced the game the way that I'mma later today And hey, I paint you a visual, thru the waves of a digital Hate the individual, - pay attention in intervals I'mma say with a purpose, my words'll do me a service Furnish my nerves and earnestly, my urges emergin' free Yeah, and lay my eyes on the prize And watch as I defy the lies that all the biters provide Idolize the middle-cla**, with divisional status I'm an inch away from being labeled miserably-average Outta' Texas with a record of sorts Record stores play me second to the regular sport Off the charts is what I tell my f'n measuring board My leverage is the door to the dreaded devil of war [Hook]