SCISmatters

[Saint]

Shaken/Stirred

Time flew.
My mind blew. This rhyme's through.
Guess I'm back on my grind duke, and that's times two.
to static cling the wool fabric over the eyes of the blind few.
Now the fruits of my labor come with the rind; True.
Y'all seasoned vets lack spice, ain't even half nice.
fuck y'all trippin' on?
This rap shit is like black ice.
Get slapped, twice; please get ya facts right.
Two pulls and get cracked like whats up in ya glass pipe.
Grizzly emcee, but I tell my lies bald faced.
Murdered the verse and left the chorus dead in the crawl-space
and still got a way with words.
Leave lyricists shaken; stirred,
Barely makin’ the curve,
plus leave no traces or blurs.
Rappers lacin’ the world wit’ convoluted music,
Supposed to be pros-tryna con the dudes who use it
as entertainment.
But they ain’t entertained wit’
ya slave mentality; only talkin’ bout chains; whips.
Different tree, same shit; got lames pissed,
I starch iron anemic thoughts and leave they brains stiff.
Rap's therapeutic, I need to vent for free
See essentially, in order to live I need the pen to bleed.
Write to the death;
a mic and a check are the means to my head's extremes.

"Avenue Hell and Glenwood"

Another gunnned down.
it's hush now,
but the loudest of secrets,
is he who forgets his story is bound to repeat it.
We gotta crawl before we walk we're barley waddlin' yet.
I'm tryna withdraw before I even deposit a check
Our ladies lay with a man and ain't got his respect
Our babies play in sands thas needle infested
Our fathers are role models, we see 'em arrested
Apples dont fall too far from trees and the seeds are infected.
Pressure is mounting, every breath we breathe is congested.
Figureheads of ours lead misdirected,
we're spiraling down an awful abyss.
Even the blind can see we're lemmings walkin' off of the cliff.
My pen runs blood thru it but it's soft at the tip.
Shooting monkeys in a barrel, guerillas lost in the mist.
Its not often we sit and talk, but often we drift,
into the violent winds of caution, and piss.
Turning away only leaves you yellow backed and ashamed.
If Harriet could see us now she'd prolly laugh in her grave,
then wonder why we lust chains and whips;
it's the path of a slave.
No stocks and bonds, but bond to stocks like back in the days.
Half of the shit we buy is silly see,
if you aint got the cash yet, even ya assets are liabilities.
Same cats in the same spot askin to hear the flow
Same gats with the same shots blastin from years ago.
Another gunnned down.
it's hush now,
but the loudest of secrets,
is he who forgets his story is bound to repeat it.

vs the FRANCHISE
round 2? why?
Y'all know he aint used to the tempo
Fran wrote his last battle on his body like dude from Memento..
so he wouldn't forget the shit. Make ya exit quick.
You got an accredited flow with no pre-requisites
And those college days seem like some time later
when there were no tapes or DVDs, this nigga pledged Phi Beta.
Seriously fam, you gotta be the worst clown
who entered every tourney here and never got out the first round.
Ya bald and old. Hoes love to see you on pay day
cus you'll never get Free ass, dukes a lamer version of A.J.
If you the Franchise, it gotta be common stock
or better yet this dudes a corner store owned by mom & pop.
You lurkin at Prowlers, like I'm the one wit' a bone to pick
You mad cus you old enuff to father the Son who owns the shit.

But I'm Brooklyn's own.

I'm from where if you can flow ya respected.
Kids stay hopeless, dejected.
All you see is smoke in the air like a new Pope was elected.
I know people whose intentions are so evil.
The closest ya'll been to serial killas was boll weevils.
Kids shootin’ hoops where fiends are shootin’ up,
and their dreams are shot.
Basketballs get deflated by old needles.
Keep ya eyes open, you never know whos holdin'.
Dudes stay on the corner and shoot like they Bruce Bowen.
I don't dance no mo'...all I do is THIS
Double my money by shootin trips,
then, I'm snatchin’ my bread up like its Eucharist.
Fed up with the foolishness…
…It’s either; get killed or you locked up.
Tell ya friends you’re moving, right to the projects a block up.
Little bitches knocked up, still thinking they hot stuff.
Box cutters and rocks stuck, inside of their socks, tucked.
Poker faced villains is willin’, and they do not bluff.
They’re eatin’ whatever’s available, this is potluck.
Step on a man’s shoes, you get blew if his S Dot’s scuffed.
B.I.G. fans scream at the top of they lungs that Pac sucks
Get ya knot touched over some he say, she say.
Ya mom will make it home in time for the news replay.
Just cus you had no idea about where the Gs stay.
You do your bids on E-Bay, but I'm a lifer in B.K.