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Internal Rhyme

In poetry, internal rhyme, or middle rhyme, is rhyme that occurs within a single line of verse, or between internal phrases across multiple lines. By contrast, rhyme between line endings is known as end rhyme. Internal rhyme schemes can be denoted with spaces or commas between lines. For example, "AB,AB,AB" denotes a three-line poem with the same internal rhyme on each line, and the same end rhyme on each line (which does not rhyme with the internal rhyme). more »

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Uh, this shit a breeze, ya dig, don't need to blow what your secret is
Cashing these cards to max, don't even know what the visa did
Slamming my foot on the gas, I don't got time to tuck sleep no kid
Yeah they talk plenty of trash in traffic, way home from that pizza gig
Speaking to Jesus, meet your maker, miss the reaper
Preach through a speaker, this shit a soap box, can't be bleaker
That's why I'm running a bag, taxing they ass for a feature
It ain't bout nothing to brag, that's human nature, I'm a creature
I got a right to retain the flexing that come with the name
Especially considered the change of only hitting me with something to gain
F*ck it, can't personalize it, just wouldn't advise it
Reevaluate the circle you tribed with, make sure your guys fit
Love from Philly to New Brunswick and Spa six, learned angles of politics
The scramble of punches can feel like a mosh pit, begging to squash it
Socking out sockets, turn into rockets, rather shift back to the pockets
Changed the thing she was originally rocking once her fabric felt the faucet
Monday we shopping and blew a bag, Tuesday she rocked cause I blew her back
Equations the same when you do the math, that's why she came cause I knew her path
She yelling my name like producer tags, shit might sound fire on the intro
You try recording your maiden, you turning the gain bout as high as the shit go
Uh, this shit a breeze, ya dig, don't need to blow what your secret is
Cashing these cards to max, don't even know what the visa did
Slamming my foot on the gas, I don't got time to tuck sleep no kid
Yeah they talk plenty of trash in traffic, way home from that pizza gig
Speaking to Jesus, meet your maker, miss the reaper
Preach through a speaker, this shit a soap box, can't be bleaker
That's why I'm running a bag, taxing they ass for a feature
It ain't bout nothing to brag, that's human nature, I'm a creature
I'm sturdy, but wasn't born in New York or New Jersey, Pennsylvania the name of it
Dirty, three cities all surrounded by dirt roads and some racist codes, hardly
Buried, Philadelphia is filled with the thirties, both clips and the Fetty and
Perkies, how much evidence in the Delaware, Schuylkill where the waters are murky?
I can't front hold the city down to the first street
Think you got the juice? Boy you Dr. Seuss, all you do deliver nurseries
Call that something like a mid wife
I'm in tact, fam on my back, f*ck could I prove through a fist fight?
But looky don't push me baby, I'm still maturing more every day
And I'm loved by most including my folks who ain't 'posed to get carried way
Practice Spanish in Los Angeles, til I'm parasailing out in Paraguay
With my boss dime, sitting court side, talking shit like Mary J
Uh, this shit a breeze, ya dig, don't need to blow what your secret is
Cashing these cards to max, don't even know what the visa did
Slamming my foot on the gas, I don't got time to tuck sleep no kid
Yeah they talk plenty of trash in traffic, way home from that pizza gig
Speaking to Jesus, meet your maker, miss the reaper
Preach through a speaker, this shit a soap box, can't be bleaker
That's why I'm running a bag, taxing they ass for a feature
It ain't bout nothing to brag, that's human nature, I'm a creature

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