Circulate (100 Bars)

ST. . . Termanology. . . J DIlla

I circulate the papes

My mind state concentrate on the paper chase

With good rates on the weight no seed or shave

Hennessey to the face don’t need to chase

My enemies I erase out my mind frame

My style caine on the beat, I step like ten deep

That S and then T, don’t sweat the technique

That’s me, repping that ST (unh)

Went on a brief chase, stashing my briefcase

Hash on my weed’s laced, flashing my deep crates

Like Flex, but I flex album release dates

So damage a beat tapes sampling beat breaks

I check with a weak fake rapper diseased snakes

That ran through the beat game, wacker with each tape

They try to destroy the game with that noise

And blame the bad boys, like Puff the same choice to suck

And make corny rap with shiny suits for loot

And pollute the booth with that music

Losin’ the truest of art in confusion

Do I wanna lie— or give you the truth

Do I wanna fry— or ride in Lex coupes

Let’s choose. I be on the Henny and juice

Grey Goose make you loose with the tongue

So I’m real enough to tell you ain’t nobody doin’ shit where I’m from

Like even my own sons they owe me a fortune

I said when it’s all done they’ll know I am The One

So crucify me, try and design me

And your mind is being grimy, the one you should probably

Try and snake for his papes, you can’t get nothing by me

If you did it feel special, cause homie I let you

I’m a street nigga, which means I done been broke

It don’t mean I shot a nigga every day that I woke

It don’t mean I slang coke every day though I did

For a good amount of time, then I had me a kid

Looked myself in the mirror, like ‘son you could sit up

In the bing doing sit ups in a box with them killers

Or you could reconsider, calm down with the liquor

Brush the coke off the scale, throw that shit up in the river'

How could I go hard without seeing po cars

Just trying to doze off, feds trying to Bogart

My life is trife but I’m destined to know God

So I don’t give a fuck if they hit me with no charge

I’m destined to be what I’m destined to be

So if I’m stretching these beats so effortlessly

And I make it look easy like the homie ED

Stuff the baked ziti, fuck the HPD

Puff the gray seedless dutch with hay steaming

My eyes gleaming, I’m straight leaning

Welcome to another level when I'm MCing

I’m Rakim, LL, and I’m Kool G in

A blender with a semiautomatic four-fever

And a stole Visa, divas catch beatings

Cheeba roll trees, the green is so mean and

Nothing like a joke, I smoke that homegrown

Want that funky cold medina, fuck with Term-lo

Lo. . . now fuck around and get smoked

I come with a razor dripping with AIDS to rip your face up

I got the pistol laid up haters better hit the gym up

Invest in a vest, the best of the best

The recipe just: mix a little cut with the fish

I’m a insane spitter, and I run with them caine dealers

Old school spitters say I remind them of Caine nigga

Politically, analytically I am physically

Every bit of a real MC, trilogy after trilogy

Millimeters to kill MCs willy niggas on MTV

And leaving bodies in the trees. . . with the fleas

Gimme any beat, I’m burying you bastards

Plastic bag rapper, save money on the casket

Homie, I get shady like Cassius

Get them bullets out, Tom Brady type fashion

I ain’t in the whip, Mercedes all flashing

I be in the hood where the .380s is blasted

Mashing, while they call me the truth

Y’all dudes is hardcore, just not in the booth

I’m the supercalifragilistic rich spic

With hits like Will Smith, my chick a bit schiz

But man, she suck dick, lips and big tits

Like Pam, the sick scripts I write is all night

Like my nigga Fat Joe— thank God for that whiiiite!

Motherfucker, damn right

I keep goin’ with deep flowin’ like each poem

Was written by niggas in the pen

Straight blowin’ they time in confinement

The sirens'll blind us they try and combine us

With shine and define us as gangsters and riders

With shanks into violence, we face any problems

With fakes and vaginas

The holes in the loot get you holes in your suit

Where it’s told to the troops never fold or we shoot

Just explode in the booth like your flows is the truth

If you flow for the loot then you’ve chosen the route

Of the evil, conniving deceitful despising

These creeps that be lying with beef they reside in

The bling that they buying, they sing for the diamonds

Is weak as me dying for cheeks that ain’t mine

I'm creeping through Zion, floating through Baghdad

My shoes flying at Bush faster than Arabs

Cash in my safe has gone for a paycheck

As small as a paint chip off of my tape deck

I rhyme with a straightjacket and a face mask

And I ain’t finished til I bodied every beat Jay has

Dilla