I Can't Rap

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