[Canibus]nThis is the C-Section //nRipping and repping the lyrical legend //nSending ya’ll to Mic-Club heaven //nThis is the C-Section //nA lyrical legend //nSecond to none in this profession.nn[Canibus]nI spit it exquisite and rip it minute by minute, I’m in it to win it //nYou fuck around with ‘Bis and you’re finished //nLyrical menace, I’ll strip enamel off of your teeth like a dentist //nWith a sentence administered from the Executive Senate //nChord progression followed by metaphorical methods //nTesting, 1-2-3-4, Testing, Testing //nSupreme supremacist, nemesis to competitors //nPredators eat intestines of anything they’re interested in //nSlice you like lettuce and celery stalks severed //nThen make an emcee salad out of suckers and sell it //nFor an expensive percentage with nine-tenths of the credit //nDrink Red Bull beverage to increase lyrical leverage //nI only give respect to Mic-Club members and my own mentors //nIn the center of my circle where I dare you to enter //nThis is art imitating life imitating art //nImitating my brain simulating thoughts when I talk //nIdealistically I’d spit for free //nThe stenography of the rhyme is what balances me, challenges me //nEA-6B prowlers, superior air power //nFly around us with propulsion that’s soundless //nSpitting rhymes out by the thousands //nNitroglycerin tablets under the tongue calm me down a bit //nAttitude, cynicism and lassitude //nBattle you? Come on dude, I should slap you fool //nSpit what? I’ll leave your lips numb //nThe friction is so sick, son, your chin will disappear from attrition //nHigh intensity conflict is a given //nEspecially if it’s Canibus that’s doing the ripping //nThe snipping and clipping and the C-Section incisions //nWith scissors with ergonomic grips for the fingers //nLiars for hire wit a defense like Jeffrey Feiger //nAnd five polite thugs that work for Mic-Club //nHyped up, I tear the mic up my man //nAnd move forward as expeditiously as I can //nAin’t nobody in the world like ‘Bis //nThe nicest with radio telescopic devices saying tight shit //nFacially hairless and gregarious, Jamaican-American //nLyricist turned microphone terrorist //nAirlift me off the front lines to my therapist //nSo I can sit in his chair and tell him how much I care for this //nThis is what they want, this is what they love //nTo engage in the exchange of ideas and drugs //nWhile I’m in the cut satellite-tracking you rappers //nWith months of food rations beneath the Catacombs of Paris //nTheories of super lattice is super savage //nAtomic attack tachometers flash when I punch the gas //nBitch, the farther I climb the harder I rhyme //nYou’ve got to face death and survive to feel more alive //nThe quality of life is an illusion of the mind //nSuperimposed lines look two-dimensional from the side //nAccording to the size of the C-Section applied //nIf they say I’m the best after I’ve died, don’t be surprised //nI’ll C-Section the sky and let my energy rise //nAt the moment of truth I’ll know it’s definitely my time //nAs my soul is squeezed through the sieve //nI’ll be grateful because I lived, the only drawback is that I didn’t have kids //nTo C-Section my beautiful whiz //nAnd see the resemblance of my face in hers or his //nWho knows what the future will bring //nIts stresses me to think, this mic meant everything know it doesn’t seem important //nNow I’ve got to follow orders //nDefend borders from Maine to California, Seattle to Florida //nIf I could talk to the Oracle I know what I’d ask her //nI’d speak to her about my passions //nAs the hour glasses turn and my life passes //nI’ll just wait until I see the Master and I’ll just ask Him //nForget it, that’s the future and this is the present //nA message to anyone listening to the C-Section //