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cyne - spoken for lyrics

[verse 1: so-rs- spoken]
a formidable foe. conformity’s comfortable
you sacrificed content for a more diggable flow
we’re all sick of your ho. act as a model citizen
popping bottles of hollow medicine—betcha these shots’ll let ‘em in
ease that, let the beat lapse
a mic’s a wife to an emcee, so why’s yours giving you feedback?
gather the crowd and move them—i’m a smooth cat
who only loses his cool when the crowd doesn’t groove back
transmit lyrical transit. rhymes are an oasis placed in a sand pit
you wanting in on the game but you can’t fit
‘cause i’m a monster in heat, pondering deep
rotten from the devils conquering me
so stay patient. these radio waves communicated
through a radio slave station. your heartrate’s racing
the sound is straight bas-m-nt. polish lecture
my platoon carries canteens for the knowledge nectar
from a fruit with a solid texture for those doubting scriptures
a picture’s worth a thousand words, but my word’s worth a thousand pictures
you fountain l1cks are earth works with a mountain mixture
guerilla music warfare for the sound, the most
the more vicious the flow, the more rare
‘cause i’m a creature in habit, blazing
here to speak to a savage nation
i provide plenty food for thoughts, so feed your imagination

[verse 2: cise star]
folding you n-ggas in my soldier state, setting the stage for war
with air force ones, i’m walking through kuwait
bulletproof bubble jackets, using my desert tactics
camouflage to my toes. my trigger finger’s spastic
heavy in streets like 24s on box chevies
i rock steady on motherf-ckers who ain’t ready
you swishers sweet. i’m philly-blunt, so, “what the f-ck?”
i’m dollar with mine—yo b-tch–ss, nickel up
the sign of the times—look at the dark skies
is it money or politics? what’s your reason for rhyme, n-gga?

[verse 3: akin]
i’m not content with they style they boast. and, so, i approach
the mic with a fighter’s ghost—spirit on my shoulder, older
wise and now i learn to be a soldier. but not a street soldier
phony emcees, your acting days are over
poof. but gone, you’re not one to hear—look
you’re not a real revolutionary—you’s a punk crook
for hire. my voice over drum inspire
a young n-gga to scream out, “we’re living in fire”
grab your gun for war now—we marching as one
as a drummer boy toy with a beat—that’s fun but hard
my face scars ‘til i’m ready for more
a refugee far from home—let’s settle the score
i cannot tire, fight ‘til my words expire
out of my mouth, i shout to the peasant empire
young boys with they pants sagging
they probably bragging in cyphers
they relay rhymes—tongues are magnums
but only if you knew the might of your own words
you gotta let it be, be free—one with the birds
moving in motion, i see hypocrites approaching
tryna figure me out just to get me open
and break me down. it’s too late—they woke me now
i’m feeling like marx—they hate to embrace me now
those days are gone of wondering what’s gon’ happen
believe in the hammer, running with the likes of sharpton. man
f-ck that! believing in god, then trust that
they bust at. better bust back—it’s on now

[verse 4: cise star]
carry the weight on shoulders—behold the bold soldier
holding his own, he groans under the new pressure
getting his act together, braving the stormy weather
fighting the feedback, sweat staining his new sweater
nervous but still going. lyrics forever flowing
out of his lips—he flips until the next chorus
crowd going insane—adrenaline in his brain
feeling a higher power guiding me, pulling the reigns
never a full stop until the crowd drops
surging with energy, he spitting ‘til the speaker pops
gripping the mic until the people seeing the light
gripping it tight, making sure the lyrics entice
a state of mind where peace and war intertwine
the fine line between me and you just goes blind
and ‘til the song transcends reality, bends
heartbeats in unison, music will never end

- cyne lyrics

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