Biochemical Equation [Datsik & Excision Remix]

RZARZA 

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RZA

Robert Fitzgerald Diggs (born July 5, 1969), better known by his stage name Rza ( /ˈrɪzə/ RIZ-ə; usually styled RZA), is an American Grammy-winning music producer, multi-instrumentalist, author, emcee, and occasional actor, director, and screenwriter. A prominent figure in hip hop, Rza is the de facto leader of the Wu-Tang Clan. He has produced almost all of Wu-Tang Clan's albums as well as many Wu-Tang solo and affiliate projects. He has also released solo albums under the alter-ego Bobby Digital, along with executive producing credits for side projects. In addition to the Wu-Tang Clan and his solo releases, Rza was also a founding member of the horrorcore Hip Hop group Gravediggaz where he used the name The Rzarector. Furthermore, he has acted in several mo… more »

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(The weed, the hash or the 'caine)
(Afflicted by the pressures of life)
(Or the Desi' being stained on my brain)

Tempted by the sins of life, the pleasures of lust
With wild imaginings that you can't discuss
Oh, the flesh is weak, it's a struggle for peace
It's a daily conflict between man and beast
We strive for God and a better tomorrow
Still suffering from the unforgettable sorrow
Repent from thy sins, son, and walk ye straight
Stop talkin' all that trash, boy, and talk ye straight
Afflicted by the pressures of life 

(The weed, the hash or the 'caine)
(Afflicted by the pressures of life)
(Or the Desi' being stained on my brain)

Afflicted by the pressures of life
At every vital point
Still, I wouldn't give an oint'
Or flinch an inch or pitch a pinch
Off the pie or ever try to try your wench
Confronted by the Devil Himself and stayed strong
You think you can take the king, now meet Kong
Strong as the base of a mountain, there's no countin'
How many MCs have sprung from our fountain
Fifty-thou' a year process to make this combination
I'm not givin' mine away to Satan
Although I know that he's awaitin'
To get a hold of my biochemical equation
I'ma slip him, son, I'ma dip him, son
When I catch the drop on him, I'ma clip him, son
Fifty-thou' a year process to make this combination
Ninety-nine elements, biochemical manifestation
I'm not giving mines away to Satan
Although, I know that he's awaitin'
I'ma slip him, son, I'ma dip him, son
When I catch the drop on him, I'ma clip him, son

Bet, ahk straight to the head with the pet rock
At least 'til I can get from out this booth it's like a sweatbox
Trade a few bars of head noddin' throw us a stack
Pay him and it's sewed up like thread and bobbin' bonus pack
Invest in the first B-boy kid's show
Live off skid row with jive-talking negros
He wear his beard like a frizzly-haired grizzly 
And kept his appearances exquisitely rare, where is he?
Is he in your backyard or on your front porch? 
Or standing in the corner of the club with the blunt torched? It's off
They say he rhyme like he starvin' and sold odds and bodkins
To old gods and goblins, golly
I'm just a pest and your worst best friend who mend and rip space-time fabric
Like polyester blend, not a hobby for no knobby-kneed lesser men
Or sloppy like the rest of them, they probably need estrogen

(Afflicted by the pressures of life)
(The weed, the hash or the 'caine)
(Afflicted by the pressures of life)
(Or the Desi' being stained on my brain)

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