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Minimal MC (2:44)

I never want to be a minimal MC, I want to spit out rhymes greater than NYC.
I seem to write verses even in my sleep, so when I wake up a rehearsal is first before I eat.
It's like this 24/7 7/12 every day every week.
And when I don't rhyme... I speak.

With all these verses I'm cursed with my days leave me a bit stressed in.
But it's not a curse no, really it's a blessing.
I couldn't think of fate better than the one I'm dressed in.
Appreciate life, there, I learned the lesson.

I'm living now I don't know if I lived before.
Not knowing probably makes me appreciate it more.
Of course I don't appreciate it quite enough.
Even though it is filled with so vital stuff.

Like the vibes all the time my rhymes pizza crust.
I like clean floors after bathing in dust.
I like streamlined metal after reading in rust.
But I will never settle cause I do what I must.

The only true fact in which I truly trust.
Is the one that there are none, much to my disgust.
People seem to still farm some, they make stuff up.
If there isn't already stuff good enough.

They make religion, they make war, they make friends.
They make new beginnings yet they make many ends.
And even when they've made stuff they do it again.
They never stop, not even when I lift my pen.

From the paper and let my thoughts gather for later.
I'm an entertainer and as life goes I grow greater.
Not the greatest now but I'm happy to say.
That I write creative things almost every day.

My thoughts are spun like cotton.
You need some then I got them.
They'll never be torn or rotten.
And I have a lot of them.

I never believed in living for the lottery.
I never believed in magic or in Harry Potter he.
Wore big round glasses and such I don't like.
And my own I would rather crush and strike.

But this tune is fading out now, this tune is growing dim
I think I'll prepare for the next one and into it dive in.
I live for the music I'd love to go on tour.
I can imagine myself even though I haven't been there before.

I can't sleep on the plane, try to count sheep but in vain.
I call them Abigail and Anna, Maria and Johanna.
Then I write a rhyme for each one as I head down to Atlanta.
I might seem happy as Santa, red and dangerous, as I grab my pen and thrust.

Like a sword all you see is a little black piece of plastic me.
I'm plastered with a cascade of see-through metal you can't see me seems.
Like I'm floating out of dreams, in and out and in on dreams.
Silent are the vivid screams that still live in memories wild.

I'm not an only child but I'll be the only one.
Who will truly shine, ever, bright as the sun.


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