DESCRIPTION:
GET THE REMIX (feat. CASUAL of HIEROGLYPHICS): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkAasitB2Pw

Split screen effect provided by Pop Motion Pictures.

LYRICS:
(updated and annotated on Rap Genius: http://rap.genius.com/Sammy-warm-hands-definition-of-a-rap-flow-lyrics)

i'll be a legend an american tale like fivel
like an anthrax scare in the mail my rivals
might cower in their boots, i devour the troops
scour the scene with a scowl while i tower like eiffel
fuck a sneak peak i'm a sight for a sore eyeful
like chief keef reading lines out of the bible
i rhyme for survival, never fired a rifle
never hunted for game i've got nothing to gain
from hundreds of fussing, buzzing buzzards all fucking gunning for fame
i'm running a flood to your brain like an abundance of blood in your vein
you're too conventional, emcees are one in the same
two dimensional beings like you were stuck in a frame
you're a sucker to feign, i'll redefine the flow
with non-linear rhyme schemes and i don't know
maybe i'll bust with substance or speak uniquely
like i'm here for a myriad reasons or merely an inkling
of purpose like chuck said, if i can't teach
i shouldn't even open my mouth to speak
but i reach them loud and they seek to find
a beast of another kind has breeched the minds
of a dumbed down sound bound by cartoon delinquency
confounding the crowd with a fine tuned frequency
and if you can't speak to me with decency
go fuck yourself if you can reach it easily
'cause anybody can rap for like five minutes straight
half of these cats can't for their lives illustrate
any relatable stories or even tangible evidence
of their debatable glories at the hand of benevolence
but what's the benefit of breaking the mold?
inevitably i won't settle until i'm taking control
if you're faking the funk don't fucking meddle with us
i keep my mind sharp, your shiny metal will rust
you'll be craving vapor, chasing the paper, defacing the face of the
sacred for status you're a disgrace and i'm taking you fakers down like a fader
'cause i'm a master debater slaving away to the beat
while you're saving on labor for cheap
thought you could cheat like you were dropping the heat
and shot a proper video with props you got in the street
but no amount of graffiti or train tracks
can hide the lack of even fleeting meaning in lame tracks
you claim facts but lack in actual action
i hate your band, you understand? there's no passion, all fashion
you bomb sets like open mic stand up
i've blessed this contest with presence like santa
and i planned to skip the first chorus
but that biz markee shit is damn good for us!!

i'll destroy 'em all

i'm whiter than sun dried bird shit
but I'm a bonafide rhyme writer and unsigned merchant
my lines surprise, remind tongue tied virgins
no bus ride verses are worthy of worship
fuck a punch line, wiping the floor with damn rappers
people pleading for s'more — toasted graham crackers
like a flea i'll leave em bleeding
conceding proceeding to flee and
i'm reading their pleas impeding their glee as i please
whether OG oldies or HNIC
i'll roast old fogies and each MIC
the way i see, we enjoyed the same scene
but now i've made a vow to destroy the mainstream
fuck a Wilhelm, i wanna hear Drake scream
but chumps can't cut the mustard man like Rake's scene
i'll be stuck in your ear— my CD's a corn holder
another stroke of genius ivy league porn folder
coming in for the kill, until we face senility
i've got more Techniques than DJ Abilities
the pity epitome on a path of futility
without any excuse for such a lack of humility
not a shred of credibility, you bet i'm precise
and i drop so much shit you've gotta flush it twice
i'm a sad clown bad summer hair cut
had it down 'til my midlife crisis flared up
but you're like a seat belt with no buckles
i'd rather watch a documentary about toe knuckles
i'll mock you readily without provocation
i'm the remedy inoculation for indoctrination
of fast food rap, crass boom bap's back
CRUDE slap to the face, kick to your ass crack
crush a battle act, write a finer haiku
even the bpm is higher than your IQ
i won't fight you throwing left or right blows
i'll murder any motherfucker when it comes to live shows
the greatest thing since resealable oreos
better than blow jobs at truck stop glory holes
no place to run, no place to hide
'cause my farts even stink outside

For more music from Sammy Warm Hands, visit http://take92.com.