Verse 1 - Corn Tha Coon

Never sleep on tha beat, or cheat on tha beat, on some TLC late night creep on tha beat
But when I speak on tha beat, I hit it and kick it its like my voice is in tha fist or tha feet
Not your fist on your meat, and your stick comes to bleep, but muse for amusement
Makin hits and contusions, until ya shit gets to brusing, and trip to illusions
When u hit em wit tha rhythm of tha full force, wit tha same seasoning as pulled pork
Shootin for ya goals on a full court, but didnt get tha point cuz u pulled short
But I've designed a play, to find a way, wit time and faith, to get a 1st at tha line today
And all you gotta do is move like you proving to everyone, u don't like to hibernate
If it doesn't result in a score, then that my mistake and a review of tha testiment
But if you can get passed that line and stay, it'll prove to be tha excellence
That'll make it tha fecies, AKA tha best wit tha thesis,
Straight logic in tha flesh tryin to be free, and giving nothing less on tha beat G, C-T-C
I let it feed me, and then conceive these as tha audio version of optic illusion
My sonic intrusion will mutate ya genes when bathed in my toxic infusion
Cuz its tha kind of a thrill that you know is sign and sealed
And if u off No-Doze and so woke can't fall back then u might as well, not sleep on tha beat

HOOK

This is dedicated to tha coldest and yes, also been known as tha best
For making music for tha soul to confess, blow to tha head or smoke to tha chest
Or for education and promotion of sex, while tha wack can go wit tha rest
Music that I know is tha mess, So I say my flow and profess

Verse 2 - Miguel Tucker

Yeah,
Look good, even when I don't smile, spit a dope rhyme, profound, up in no time
Got up a sentence of pronouns, I poke out, go all out in tha game, but I won't fire
Tell me this is whut it comes to, a city full of wack niggaz that I run thru
Yeah, they talk that real shit, when they figure that a muthafucka tell them where to go to,
HELL, I'm not like a lot of them, I don't got a lot of bitch, I'm like a protestant
I speak my mind from a lot of them, but still ain't nobody here thats hot as him
Belittling old ass spitters wit lyrical skills, I'm killin em
I'm having my way with tha game, like that hick in Deliverance
They ain't bout this shit, Tell 'em get a good view, watch this shit
Show 'em how to do it with a heavy influence, under tha influence, thought you knew this shit
Ain't shit like Bigge, ain't shit like Twista
If we talking lyrical skills, I'll show you bitches tha difference
Simon said Nifty you should kill 'em all
They always quick to say you over when they never start
Miguel, YEAH…

HOOK

Verse 3 - Corn Tha Coon

Some nights i still sleep on tha beat outta ignorance, as i dwell in imaginate figament
Into tha bottoms of tha deepest most intamite, to figure out tha sitch and then commit
To tha vision sent, so i can render it, whut i carry inside like Bender shit
Cuz if he lets it fester it'll injure him, thus burning you up like Cinder quick
Express tha aggression progressively, bless a confession collectively
Profess ya collected like jet debris, And object or contest that thats anti me
Cuz I'm all about getting tha panty D, Rawls in tha Lou while we playing thee
Cuts off USB, setting tha mood to damage and slay tha beave
When its detramental, an instrumental can make you get a pencil, or pistol whip you
Or it can make you cut all tha shit you into, as it is a gensu wit crystal grip grooves
It prevents dudes from seeming wack, believing that, they can actually rhyme
And u get whut you put in, so to get a foot in, it takes practice and factual time
Stack you some lines, go back and refine, and i guarantee right after that you will find
That you created ya own map thru tha mind, just thru melodic tone as an act of devine
Conseption, so when you wake up, everything is bathed in tha truth
So all thats left is to alarm others so they can awake from tha stoop