This is the life,so i guess that must be the death,
When I'm sick on the mic,bust frees up on the deck,
Don't discuss g's but I rep,hip hop till the day i die or stop living,
It disgusts me and I've felt,gotta take from them what they not giving,
I don't just write rhymes,I breathe rhythm,fuck a rhyme scheme,
Use the fire to light minds,i've been spittin' all my mind's seen,
When I'm kicking these lines clean or when I be profane,
Cats is flipping,i see their eyes gleam,it's like green,so plain,
Green the colour of envy,red the colour of rage,blue the colour of sky,
I've seen these suckers,they emcees?i colour my page,and which colour am I?
I'm black,the colur you get down when all colours absorbed,
Though by fact,my skin is more brown,but now the puzzle is solved,
I do hustle and ball,not dealing drugs or pimping hoes though,
But I tussle and fall,get up and spit thinking flows slow,
Or with a faster rhythm,flip it whichever way i happen to feel like,
And whenever this bastard's spitting,it's like rappin' just feels right,
So the reason i rap is the reason the sky is blue or the rain is wet,
Or the reason in fact,why we breathin',this mic,this dude,it's so insane and yet,
It makes perfect sense,this is the life,so put that instrumental on,
I can write verse with pens or just spit on the mic,these bars meant for songs,
So fuck this,let me hook the mic up and record some heat,
No time to sit and look,this tight bust is all I need.