Obsolete

these are the wrong lyrics FYI
You know it's fucked up when your own little brother won't loan you shit, Yo... heh
You walk into the place with your little brother and be like, yo, check it out,
This is my motherfuckin little brother and people say, hey yo
Yo, I ain't ever been treated like that, so fuck him, he ain't no rapper, Hey Yo
I like the sound of that, this should be really good,
Fuck your friends right now, I like that.

(Overlapping)
Where am I coming in?
Yeah, yeah, yeah thanks a lot, just make sure that you keep your mouth closed,
Yo, shut the fuck up when you're talking to me.
Yo what the fucks your problem,

Hey yo,
Shut the fuck up and die is what I really want to say to you,
Hope someone hits you in your face till it's 80 different shades of blue,
Isn't there anything better you got to do than jock my crew?
I sever contenders and render the hearing process impossible.

You talk trash behind my back trying to act like you know me,
But when you see me at the show you give me dap like we're homies,
Remember bad day? Thought I was through talking shit,
Now I'm like fuck the world just cause you walk on it.

Yo, the stink of burnt bridges inches into the end zone,
Where every breath of bad karma's reciprocated tenfold,
Enjoy the last boogie when life raises the gavel,
It symbolizes your very last chance to act like an asshole.

Plastic soldiers grabbing at their holsters,
trying to burst imaginary heaters in their ghost wars,
Each jackle eventually slipped backwards,
showcasing how to best waste your life by trying to dismantle the patchwork.

If you pass this test,
I'll be sure to pin your red badge of courage through your chest flesh,
With swift hands, the way your blood will flood, you'll switch plans,
To blue water's red quicksand.

Sinking deeper into the potion,
I'll bottle my jism and sell it to your wisdom as some hand lotion,
I'll walk the fine line between being ill and being sick,
And you walk the fine line between being pussy and being a bitch.

I hold attention spans like drumsticks and play solos,
That sound like Coltrane high on cocaine,
And now the clouds are quarter notes,
And I'm a mortal man thinking I can float.

But maybe I'm delirious and this is a psychedelic experience,
Either way, I know it makes me a better lyricist,
And you ain't hardly hard. In fact, you a coward,
That back bites behind closed doors like Marv Albert.

It's the sour taste of self esteem swallowed thorugh a straw,
Enough to make your stomach bloat and leave a swollen jaw,
I'm holding balls, you're holding breath, How much of your soul is left?
Frozen steps, snooze button perpetual overslept.

Wake the fuck up, and sit the fuck down,
and shut your fuck hole and ask yourself what now,
Rip em to shreads, lift em by the heads,
spin em around and let em look at what they did to the bread.

Yo, yo
Roll over. Sit; fetch; play dead; beg,
Your political alignment walks with a peg leg,
I patch celebrations of an awkward opus,
not because it's fly, but simply because I can identify.

I carry the type of clout that sneaks below the rader,
The less they know about is the more than I can take apart,
I got a few famous alter egos inside of my frame,
It's how I deal with those people that don't know my real name.

I fired the angels. Hired a mizer to hide in the rainbows,
Murdered the worthless merchants purely for kicking the same old same old,
You're what happens when god hiccups,
The continent a fraction of my product to leave your whole project crushed.

The orphanage... god, a quality crew,
You got a bunch of teeny boppers following you,
To all you pastel poets, I'm talking to you,
who's the gay rapper? It's probably you.

Word, print, they are hoe cakes,
No flavor like cookies that are no bake,
I like sacks fully budded up with no shake,
We prepare rare forms, fire snowflakes, the ragged no breaks.

Now these here brittle vigils cuddle up to syncopated sixes in triplicate,
I cripple it just to fiddle with the syllabus,
I hate slackers. They burn through my city,
by thickening up the atmosphere and thinning out the madness.

Whatever the language, Blueprint freaks it well,
from visual basic down to speak and spell,
I'll even battle these weak emcees with braile,
Not to be fucked with – any emcee can tell.

Cause you the cat that packs pink caps to piece they though train,
I sodomize them with six broomsticks to watch them walk strange,
Slug drowns them in spit; Eyedea snaps the camera,
Aesop prepares eulegies in iambic pentameter.

It's the orphanage. Certified kavorkean,
Rappers have been torturing my dick. Chapped lips will leave the foreskin ripped,
Unless you're giving props, put a cork in it,
As I give you a new reason never to record your shit.

We've spent the most time working this goldmine,
Everybody's got their own story; I wrote mine,
Everybody's got their own words; You quote mine,
Everybody thinks I'm fucking nuts; wanna hold mine?