Canibus Curriculum 101

[Intro: sample]
Claims are being made
That for me go far beyond the available evidence,
And often even contradicts the evidence,
And that bothers me.

Forensic psychologist Samuel Dubious explains,
“You’ll probably never understand Germaine,”
Incoherent speeches, puzzles in pieces,
The sub-chemical deepness of his glandular excretions,
Realms of Heaven and Hell,
Glowing angelic gel spliced with bovine leukemia cells,
Demons in Hell, they call to me,
I scream, “What can you offer me?”
They reply, “Techno-Sorcery,”
They tell me the meek will never inherit the world,
Cause they’re weak, standing on two twelve inch feet,
I dream quasi Draconian dreams when I sleep,
Peyote leaves mixed with the blood of a priest,
In a room where the ceiling leaks of crimson grease,
Where the living eats the dead, and the dead reek,
Rock bottom transforms human beings to beasts,
Why the fuck you think we’ve got canine teeth?
It’s the optical stimuli of watching men cry,
I hope I’ve got time to repent before I die,
Bury me at the beach if the sea is out of reach,
Cause when I speak what’s fluid becomes concrete,
Like a falcon up in the sky, ten thousand feet,
Looking down at you bitches looking at me,
Phase shifting at forty-five degrees,
I’m too crooked to see, I memorize the books that I read,
Sucking from the breast of knowledge constantly weaning,
Unbeseemingly a genius without meaning,
Try to visualize what Harry Houdini was feeling,
Handcuffed under water without breathing,
Near death on a fatal quest for air,
But why should anyone care? He put himself there,
His career was based on facing his fears,
To take destiny from the hand of the man upstairs,
He didn’t mind the cold stares he got from his peers,
They couldn’t tell him where he was going or how to get there,
It’s better to be prepared and fail,
Than to be scared and unsure of yourself and still get killed,
Don’t rhyme like I used to but I still got skills,
More than a couple confirmed kills under the belt,
Hunting emcees is like hunting elk,
Camouflaged in the dense brush for stealth, determined as hell,
I don’t do this for anybody except myself,
Stuff a motherfucker like a trophy on my shelf,
Fuck the promo nigga I do this for dolo,
Flow from the first hour to twenty-four-oh-oh,
Round the clock as long as I’ve got a cup of cocoa,
But I’ll be a no-show if my girl cries, “Don’t go!”
And she gives me blow more than two times in a row,
I’d rather chill with her than kill you with a rhyme that I wrote,
Count how many mics I’ve smoked, minus the G.O.A.T.,
‘Bus is dope, my battling average is higher than most,
When I’m on the Mic I release fire from throat,
If you disagree please do it quietly folks,
Anybody better than ‘Bis must be a hoax,
Black man? No! What about the ‘Great White Hope?’,
What? Man you must be sniffing great white coke,
Don’t you know that’s like Gary Coleman fighting the Hulk?,
Still not even quite that close, a great white biting your rubber dingy boat
Fifty miles out from the coast,
What the fuck is the Mathers with you?
I’ll beat you black and blue then I’ll get a tat of you too,
Better yet I’ll put a tattoo of me on you,
A ten by ten ‘C’ logo, neon blue,
The most theatrical emcee battle of all time,
I rip jackers like you; you know my call sign,
Killer cobras that hover over Jehovah,
In motorized auto-giros with sycamore rotors,
Hydrogen-peroxide gaseous vapors,
Technically these words shouldn’t even rhyme off paper,
In theory, for every soul that can hear me, I’ma blaze them,
In practical practice my style’s even greater,
Can’t you see what I’m spitting? Can’t you hear the difference?
Compared to me you’re energetically inefficient,
You need ten times the enzymes to process one of my rhymes,
You’ve got to rewind every one of my lines,
Do you know how to paraphrase?
Do you even understand what the narrator is trying to say?
The climax explodes; nobody can foreshadow my flow,
Figuratively the language is too dope,
Academic journals print my lyrical quotes,
They show parallelism in all the albums I wrote,
On any track I come off strong automatically,
Whether I write in an active or passive capacity,
Poetry that I spit is synonymous to a glyph,
Written on tablets of clay mortar mix,
Superb, truly superb! Analyze the words,
It’s like observing the birds fly above the earth,
The Eye of Horus, the miniature torii within a giant torus,
With singularity on the chorus, I still sound enormous,
Borderline insanity trying to break through humanity’s border,
With a new curriculum every quarter,
I’m the porter to the portal of the Secret Mic-Club Order,
Baptize you with Jamaican white rum and water,
If you’ve got a hundred bars then I know you’re a warrior,
I’ll be the one who awards you and pins the medal on you,
Dedicate a song to you because now you’re honorable,
You want a record deal?
Explain the lyrical grand unified field so I can test your skill,
Do it in front of the class, chart diagram it,
And write it in Latin, not Spanish god damn it,
Step back so I can look at it, (Speaking in Latin),
Huh? What the fuck is that wack shit?
You’re clumsy and dumb like a hand with five thumbs,
Welcome to Mic-Club – Curriculum 101.