DEFENDER'S RAP

• i promise the moments i'm calmest are often the ones that get followed by sonic demolishment
• like lobbyists clockin’ the congress with documents dropped in a pocket of foggy anonymous nonsense
• i’ve opted for policy, not the performance of posturing fraudulence, don’t talk to me solemnly
• obviously i'm not in the zone where they’re throwin’ apologies softly, i called it, they copied
• i watched from a balcony while they debated who called it, and all of their logic was foggy
• oddly i followed none of it, opted to polish the product and toss it, they saw it and logged it
• i'm off in the margins with oxygen bottles that launched me like rockets through all of their targets
• gravitated toward arrangements while they stagnated in basements debating the placement of statements
• like a case study straight from a database, i escaped from the vague way they painted the stakes
• and replaced it with frameworks that changed what they claim, explained to the fuckers face to face
• why their late campaign had the same damn fate as the eight track graveyard behind the main gate
• rumbled in functions and up to the summit, rushin’ with thunder like Russ in the bubble
• up in this tunnel with muscle that doubles the rumble in your blood when the bus route cuts, cause i run up the structure
• with uppercuts, punches, destructiveness, clutch in a rut, i'm eruptin’ through buffers with nothin’ but trust in the function
• i built from a bunch of redundant discussions, like luggage that once was a duffle of unreleased shit from an intern
• i've suffered enough of these cluttered rebuttals from rappers who function like buttons on tumblr
• they thump but they stuck when it’s crunch time, been runnin through it since a hundred and one of your underlings plummeted
• they couldn’t adjust when the rust on the drumkit corrupted the plugins
• it’s what happens when rappers collapse and then then vanish, i'm manic, i vanish, plastered it backwards in acid
• damage mechanics so bad they abandon the faction and scramble like fandoms online
• havin a flashback to lab rats trapped in a pad with a cracked jack and a backpack half full of snack packs
• black Mac stashed in a snack bag, that’s facts, ask Flash
• draft tabs stacked with the last scraps of trash that these half passed grads had the nerve to call “rap raps”
• attack that, i'm that fast, i passed half of they fanbase, blast tracks at a rate that collapses a clapback
• had my name on a slate full of grade a placements they never got close to, made every statement
• like it came with a case full of weight and a J Dilla break in the base layer, like a fan tailgate rain delay
• like a crane on a freight ship scraping the bay gates, trained in the same place where the lames couldn’t maintain face
• i aim straight, tape shaped packs with the sample on playback, gray slate pads in a satchel with a pass
• for the fast lane gate at the AA stage, i'm way past phase one and i don’t backtrack, got statements saved
• back then fans in the backspace would act brave in a trash way with a backstage badge and a catchphrase
• bashed out takes in a halfway lab cave with a cracked ashtray, my options were modest
• either pop in the pocket or drop to the bottom with the cautious, it ain't in my posture, i floated through shit
• and documented the progress and wrote off the growth, i don’t owe a response to an offhand comment from bloggers with obvious problems