A More Blessed Perfection

You never will conquer the champion

Champion sound that I bust, you get your boots scuffed, true enough
You would love it if you could touch the dudes but you screwed it up
I guess it's rude of the two of us how we scattered ashes
And walked on shattered glass in the New Republic that you would publish
Screw my public, I'm Ghostface: god damn right I fuck fans
With just my hands at the bus stand
Now bust this dance I do -- and understand that you could
Take a stance but never shake the values that I answer to
I will pay through the nose to get my vinyl mastered
While you bastards form a line to have your noses Rhino-plastered
I'm no hacker, but I know passwords and I speak in code
We control the horizontal with pure bravado that leaps and grows
And your vibrato betrays that you're freezing cold inside
And couldn't even hold the mic when me and Noah coincide
Both combined, the most admired, the golden sires your soul desires
It's over guys, you're roasted on our spit over open fires

You never will conquer the champion

As you look from whence forth I come
Riding the wind, thus eliminating every trace or scent that the wackness in it could carry
Me and the Rap Legend done had us a vision where we
Brought the raw and the true shit and slaughtered all of the stupid
So let 'em try to normalize the gaze
Long as they know the raps still stuck in this mortifying phase
In which they went from being clever
To amazing the extent of which they're better than anything, ever
Even just to give 'em a vague sense of the pressure that we apply
To fakers, they inevitably would die
Why? Because to imagine a More Blessed Perfection
Is life without breath; the Heavens without the sky
There's no such thing! It can't be done
Because we are the motherfucking champions! Yes
So turn the ash of your crushed dreams to gold, fashion the trophy, hand it to us
Ain't nothing left to discuss

You never will conquer the champion