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Freestyle

It's the phantom of the opera //

The Dracula Caligula unpopular //

Melt your ocular with rocket-thrust processors //

I dare you to touch the touch-screen monitors //

Without proper gloves //

Melt the skin off your fingers 'till they look like rounded nubs //

As retarded as Forrest Gump //

You're nothing but a two-pump chump //

Drunk punk with a puss filled prostate lump //

You think that skunk stunk? //

You should have smelled that decomposing cunt //

That sick, gruesome grunt dumped in my trunk //

I'm a hunter that's ready to discontinue the hunt //

But I'm gonna keep ripping you scum 'till the millennium's done //

You couldn't pass if you was gassed out of your ass //

I'll battle you in front of Sterling Library after class //

___ spending your tuition on blunts, you're a dunce //

You get rejected trying to join Mic-Club //

Feces hit the fan from the front //

Liquid liters of diarrhea, not mud //

No, it's beet juice not blood //

Truncate your trunk //

Decapitate your face with a gun //

Assassin with your tongue //

Remove seven-eighths of your lung //

Donate it to monks with jumpsuits, zip down in the front //

For easy access when they get crunk with the nuns //

As peaceful as Evil Knievel using a dirty heroine needle //

After a four hundred and eighty foot jump //

Perform verbal acrobatic magic with crash-proof tactics //

Stuntmen say the 'F'-word more than once //

Put you on point, ___ your funky joint //

With proof like nineteen thirty three double-eagle coins //

"Bring Tha Noize" like enemies out in public //

You know you love it //

A genie bottle covered with porcupine follicles //

Try and rub it //

Blood drips 'till the tub's flooded //

My dead enemies lay there gutted //

'Till year two thousand and forty something //

In the meantime, everybody's outside running //

'Cause the puppet-master behind the curtain is coming //

With some hydrochloric stuffed in the luggage //

A "Final Call" newspaper under his arm saying, 'Peace, my brothers' //

Resonances from my vocal tracks smothers the others //

I'll bring Sparxx to any Bubba, make him guzzle pig blubber //

Do a "Ninja Man" cover, tell you to suck your mother //

If I wanted to get at you I'd just infect your lover //

Your girl's an exceptionally good sucker //

She ain't got no tan, I'll tap that ass 'till it changes color //

Get technical with decibels that are connected to you //

The audible is too incredible to sell them to you //

I'd rather tuck you in at night and tell them to you //

I introduce you to the new words and spell them for you //

Dropping jewels with unpunctuatingly possible sexugonical chronicles //

Burn you up faster than two hundred pounds of fuel //

In helicopters doing loops out in Kabul //

Compared to me, you're a out-turn, a penniless fool //

I'll take you to school, expose you to the negative news //

Take you out for drinks, put some sedatives in your booze //

If you manage to win I'll kill you, so it's better you lose //

But I'll set it up so you win and celebrate it with you //

I'll break the truth to you at a quarter 'till five //

Look you square in the eye //

And tell you that there's nowhere for you to hide //

Triangulate your flow to wherever you rhyme //

Quint-angulate your fibers one thread at a time //

Bare this in mind, look a little deeper you'll find //

Line for line, Canibus is the Red Giant of rhymes //

Mic-Club: The Curriculum, November nineteenth //

B-Y-O-B-V: Bring your own bottle of Visine //

Yale University, community broadcast emergency //

Kublai Khan proofread this verse for me //

T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound transcribed it just out of courtesy //

Then I gave them the bird 'cause they looked like nerds to me //

MicClub dot net, where real emcees preform lyrical surgery //

With Pentium circuitry //

Canibus, Yale University //

The best way to encourage me is to keep discouraging me //

They keep trying to front on me //

They don't want none of me //

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bumblebee //

No seeds yet, so you're lucky there's only one of me //

Rip the Jacker's skulduggery on a summer's eve //

The real Hip-Hop community got love for me //

That's why I give the love back //

Mic Club the Curriculum, a thousand bars, who could touch that? //