Yo they say I can't rap so why are my rhymes jampacked?
Their houses get ransacked just to tax their tampax
Lace 'em with anthrax you better stand back
You can get your man clapped with your precious land snatched
Suckers act like Marx is inexperienced on the mic
Nah son, I been spitting rhymes all of my life
I spent the last four years in practice rooms and venues
My rhyme book's the Bible the stage a holy temple
I'm pulling levers to destroy half steppers
Their soft as feathers so I pull their limbs off, like lepers
Tougher than leather, and exceptionally clever
Nine seven till forever, unstoppable endeavour
I'm a lifer however, we never expire
Marx'll never retire I resonate through the entire
World and I don't require to pass throw a portal
This solidified in wax dun, truly immortal

If words are weapons, then my vocabulary's an arsenal
Fundamental particle, rhyme display's remarkable
And Q-Tip asked me if I could kick it
I told him call me Predator, 'cause yo I get wicked
No need to wreck emcees with excalibur weaponry
Force feed them ecstasy to attack 'em with telepathy
Chop their flesh in three, that's the motherfuckin' chef in me
Disrespecting me, no recipe, rest in peace
Marx makes amazing rhymes excellently
I murder microphones marvellous and intellectually
Systematically dismantle 'em with mathematics
They're weak as a crack addict
Barely breathing like asthmatics
And that's tragic
I make magic out of habit
Unbelievably lavish God, and never ever static
I destroy tracks on cassette, CD and vinyl bitch
In a shop full of watches, you still don't know what time it is

I'm a maverick, making magic, wreaking havoc, graphic, classic
Blast it way past eleven, rhyme display's caligraphic
Massive tabs of acid, magnetic, flow attractive
Practice makes fantastic, spinning records round an axis
Don't focus on skills it's only what you're wearing
So labels would sign me if I can my hair and
My Mother keeps telling me I should stop swearing
For airplay, but Mum I ain't caring
Eeyare fuck that! I just leave 'em to bug
Continued custom comes back, it's something like a drug
And when the radio don't play me and they show me no love
I could give a flying fuck like the Mile High Club
I been blessed to chin check with finesse
Artistic anatomy, amalgamate and coalesce
When they thought I would slip, I was put to the test
And I still drop bombs like Funkmaster Flex
Rhymes laced with fact not fiction
I can't is your depiction but you have no jurisdiction
This is no prediction, big as the crucifixion
But there was no such infliction, God it's such a contradiction
Man look, you clearly just ain't got the knowledge
I be spreading so much, shit they call me a college
And I will put it in terms that even you can understand
You can't recognise real, you just ain't a rap fan
Peace