Ully - 10 AM in Guelph lyrics

Take a deep breath Too eager to jump in trenches with these vets I'm entrenched in these sets of beats Bet it's just a reflex For me to spit till I have no teeth left Freeze jet streams of thought with these pens Skate on the track like Crosby Bobby with the defence Or, I could hit you like Johny with a sweet left Hendrix, smashing axes for the weekend Enough of these wicked games, I don't pretend Enough of these lost boys, time to be men Mental exercise, lyrical like Jay said Lightbulbs put a crack in my brain like a basehead A rush of blood to the head made my face red This ghost is too cold to play I should have stayed dead But I came out of the grave with some smooth attire Shooting fire from my soul No matter who you admire I still bring goods to the store like a food supplier Still breathe easy under pressure like a scuba diver Who can fire a dude Using higher knowledge to move empires Who implores herds to explore further And look skyward And forward with actions Let alone his pa**ion Trying to grab a hold of this reality Before it's pa**in' Him by like Pharcyde He walks by and laughs when Guys try to act tough With the attitudes of has-beens They attempt to match sk** With stances that are a**ish Burn the style to ashes and rebuild fast If you want to get it in, gotta aim at the basket Move fast like Ca**ius and strike like matches Sometimes some time pa**es before we know exactly What this is really all about Thought the game had me But like a track meet I hurdled over obstacles They couldn't trap me Broke out like acne And became the main athlete Really it's all athletic with these vocal kinetics Really it's all mimetic so I can't forget my ethics Code, so I pay homage to the dope gods Eminem for showing how a white dude can go hard Jay for pushing the ball forward with no guards Ye for taking a different stance and still go yard Mos and Black for owning the math with raps so smart Shad for showing me to do it local, no postcard Some dudes try and bite a style they can own The only style I own is the style of my own And their ego is inflated but the air can't hold And I didn't get their message, was in airplane mode Didn't get the text, I neglected the phone The past is just the present with a sepia tone I get the itch when I stitch time together Don't wanna feel a tick When I spit these lines I get chills Does that mean I'm sick? I sit here wondering if something I wrote Is just something I quote From the infinite Not taking away from my penmanship Just addding to the freshest list Of sentences to bless the skin Of this lifetime These lifelines drew breath for him The heretic meddling kid Whose message is the best again Finds himself in the trenches with the vets again Gentlemen...