Lyrics Hold Mine - Atmosphere , Illogic , Aesop Rock , Blueprint

You know it's fucked up when your own little brother won't bump your shit
(Where am I comin' in?) Yo, you walk into the place with your own
Little brother and be like, "Yo, check it out." (Yeah, thanks a lot
Just make sure that you keep your mouth closed.) This is my motherfuckin' little brother
And people say, "Ayo, why your big brother act like that?
(Yo shut the fuck up when you're talkin' to me.) Fuck him. He ain't no rapper."
(Yo, what the fuck's your problem?)

Yo, shut the fuck up and die is what I really want to say to you
I hope someone hits you in the face til it's 80 different shades of blue
Isn't there anything better you got to do then jock my crew?
I severe contenders and render the hearing process impossible
You talk trash behind my back and act like you know me
But when you see me at the show you give me dap like we're homies
Remember Bad Day?
Thought I was through talkin' shit
And now I'm like, "Fuck the world"
Just cause you walk on it

Yo, the stink of burnt s inches into the end zone,
Where every breath of bad karma's reciprocated tenfold,
Enjoy the last boogie when life raises the gavel,
It symbolizes your very last chance to act like an asshole.
Plastic soldiers grabbing at their holsters,
Trying to burst imaginary heaters in their ghost wars,
Each jackle eventually slipped backwards,
Showcasing how to best waste your life by trying to dismantle the patchwork.

If you pass this test
I'm be sure to pin your red badge of courage through your chest flesh
With swift hands
The way your blood will flood you'll switch plans
Til blue waters is red quick sand
Sinkin' deeper into the potion
I'll bottle my jizzm and sell it to your wisdom as some hand lotion
I walk the fine line of being ill and being sick
And you walk the fine line of being a pussy and being a bitch

I hold attention spans like drums sticks and play solos
That sound like Coltrane
High on cocaine
And now the clouds are quarter notes
And I'm a mortal man thinkin' I can float but
Maybe I'm delirious
And this is a psychedelic experience
Either way I know it makes me a better lyricist
And you ain't hardly hard
In fact you a coward
That back bites behind closed doors like Marv Albert

It's the sour taste of self esteem swallowed through a straw
Enough to make your stomach bloat and leave a swollen jaw
I'm holdin' balls
You're holdin' breath
How much of your soul is left?
Frozen steps, snooze button, perpetual overslept
Wake the fuck up
And sit the fuck down
Shut your fuck hole
And ask yourself, "What now?"
Rippin' the shreds
Lift 'em by the heads
Spin 'em around
And let 'em look at what they did to the bread

Roll over, sit, fetch, play dead, beg
The political allotment walks with a peg leg
I pack celebrations of an awkward opus
Not because it's fly
But simply because I can identify

I carry the type of clout
That sneaks below the radar
The less they know about
IS the more I can take apart
I got a few famous alter egos inside of my frame
It's how I deal with these people that don't know my real name

I fired the angels
Hired a miser to hide in the rainbows
And murdered the worthless merchants purely
For kickin' the same-ole-same-ole
You're what happens when God hiccups
The contents in a fraction of my product
Will leave your whole project crushed

The Orphanage
Got a quality crew
You got a bunch of teeny boppers following you
All you pastel poets I'm talkin' to you
Who's the gay rapper?
It's probably you

Word Print, they all ho cakes
No flavor like cookies that are no bake
I like sacks fully budded up with no shake
We prepare rare forms five snow flakes
The wack get no brakes

Now these here brittle bitches
Cuddle up to syncopated sixes
In triplicate
I cripple it just to fiddle with the syllabus
I hate slackers
They burn through my city
By thickening up the atmosphere
And thinning out the madness

Ah, whatever the language
Blueprint freaks it well
From visual basic
Down to Speak And Spell
I'll even battle these weak MCs with braille
Not to be fucked with
Any MC can tell

Cause you the cat that packs pink caps to piece they thought train
I sodomize him with six broomsticks to watch him walk strange
Slug drowns him in spit
Eyedea snaps the camera
Aesop prepares eulogies
In iambic pentameter

It's the Orphanage
Certified Kevorkians
Rappers be torturing my dick
Chap lips will leave the foreskin ripped
Unless you're givin' props
Put a cork in it
As I give you a new reason
Never to record your shit

We spent the most time
Workin' this gold mine
Everybody's got their own stories
I wrote mine
Everybody's got their own words
You quote mine
Everybody thinks I'm fuckin' nuts
Wanna hold mine?